


burn your kingdom down

by lilithqueen



Category: Obsidian and Blood - Aliette de Bodard
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, First Time, Guilt, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Necromancy, Pining, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Canon, background Teomitl/Mihmatini
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Acatl is just getting used to maybe, possibly, having something akin to free time when the first corpses start turning up. In the course of his investigations, he discovers that a god he once fought holds grudges - and so, once again, he has to teach Himexactlywhy you don't harm the things a High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli has sworn to protect.Especially if it's the man he loves.
Relationships: Acatl/Teomitl (Obsidian and Blood)
Kudos: 1





	1. if you try to conquer me and mine

**Author's Note:**

> events in this oneshot reference [Obsidian Shards](https://aliettedebodard.com/short-stories/obsidian-shards/), so you can read that if you'd like background/more of acatl being badass/the first on-page appearance of the wind of knives!
> 
> title: [me and mine - the brothers bright](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5iEjz8ToMA)

Acatl probably should have remained on his guard, but the Empire had finally seemed to be stabilizing itself. Of course he could still feel the boundaries straining around Tizoc’s existence, and of course there was still the terrible fallout of the plague to deal with—nobody in his order had been getting enough sleep, and Ichtaca had outright threatened to hand him over to Mihmatini if he didn’t take better care of himself—but aside from that, there had been no outstanding supernatural cases for him to concern himself with in months. He’d even had time for semi-regular meals at Neutemoc’s house.

And then, naturally, the first bodies started turning up outside the palace, and it all started going downhill from there.

One dead man was bad enough. Two was a pattern. By the time Acatl was summoned to examine the corpse of the third one, still without anything he was comfortable calling a lead, he was starting to get annoyed. In all three the circumstances had been the same—there would be a disused alley or an empty courtyard, clear one moment and hosting a fresh corpse the next. Each one had been left closer and closer to the palace walls, an obvious warning. No—an obvious _threat._

At least nobody had disturbed this one yet. The setting sun bathed the courtyard in long shadows, forcing him to work by torchlight, but the magical traces were clear.

“Same as the rest?”

Teomitl stood in the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He’d found the first body and hadn’t stopped scowling since. It only softened slightly when their eyes met, which was something Acatl was _not_ going to think about. Not with murders to solve, at any rate.

He’d long since dropped to both knees for a better look at the latest victim; now he stretched, rolling his shoulders back and wincing at the crack of cartilage. _Maybe Teomitl’s on to something with the training regime. Or maybe I’m getting old._ “Mm. Strangled, and the heart carved out. And the magic surrounding the corpse isn’t from the underworld.” Still, it felt horribly familiar, and he frowned down at the exposed chest cavity. The knife that had been used to open it had left a shard behind smaller than his littlest fingernail; as he plucked it out, a greasy shimmer caught the light. Not Mictlan’s green, but close.

Teomitl nodded, grimacing. “Tizoc is getting impatient.”

The mental image of Tizoc’s _impatience_ pulled an instinctive growl from his throat as he rolled to his feet, gingerly holding the obsidian shard. While he and Acamapichtli still weren’t what he’d call friends—lately the man had taken to asking after Teomitl’s health in a distinctly insinuating way that made him want to hit something—he remembered Tlaloc’s slain clergy whenever they met, and every time it sent a hot spike of treasonous anger through him. “Hrmph.”

Judging by the look on his face, Teomitl was thinking along the same lines. “And we still don’t know enough to satisfy him. I’ll try to delay him as much as I can, but he’ll want answers.” Then he sighed, eyeing the dead man. “I think I would have preferred a beast of shadows. At least you could track those.”

“I’m not eager to fight another one of those things.” The memories of the last time were entirely too clear for comfort. “Bring that torch closer?”

Teomitl obligingly held the torch closer, frowning over Acatl’s shoulder as he prodded at the knife shard with his priest-senses. _Definitely not underworld magic, but I’ve felt this before. I know I have. But where—_

He fumbled it, and Teomitl slid a hand under his to catch it before it hit the ground. The reaction as it struck the web of Huitzilopochtli’s protection layered over his skin was immediate; Teomitl hissed through gritted teeth at the flareup of light, and Acatl snatched it back hastily. It had left a red mark behind.

All at once, Acatl remembered where he’d felt this particular magic before. _No. Duality preserve us, not again._ But Teomitl’s fingers were shaking, and that demanded his attention first. “Are you alright?”

Teomitl glared viciously at his own hand as though it had betrayed him. “I’m fine. What _is_ that thing?”

“A knife shard.” Memories painted themselves across his mind—a bloodstained courtyard in Colhuacan, Ceyaxochitl nearly dying in front of him, striking down a god with the Wind of Knives at his back. “Covered in Tezcatlipoca’s magic.”

For a moment, Teomitl was silent. Acatl wondered what he was thinking; he’d told him and Mihmatini about that particular case once over dinner, but where Mihmatini had been upset at how close he’d come to death, Teomitl had just gone quiet. It was the same sort of quiet he saw in his face now. Then he took a slow breath and squared his shoulders, and Acatl watched as the youth he’d once mentored—the youth he’d once feared would be reckless and uncontrollable and a perfect mirror of Tizoc—became the Master of the House of Darts. “Right. You have our permission,”—he used the royal _we,_ that marker of his status as the keeper of Tenochtitlan’s armory—”to do whatever you have to in order to catch the dog’s son who’s been doing this. I’ll see that you have every resource at our disposal. But you’re not to go off after him alone, understand?”

Acatl blinked, taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Teomitl studied the mark on his hand as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Good. I just...I don’t want you to forget you’re not just a simple priest anymore, Acatl. You shouldn’t be charging into things on your own.”

He’d heard Teomitl speak with that tone of angry concern before, but never with so much softness mixed in. And never while saying his name like _that._ His face burned, and he had to look away. “I won’t. I’ll—I’ll call for you before I make a move, alright?”

“See that you do.”

Acatl was spared from answering by the arrival of his clergy ready to take in the body for further examination, and by the time he looked up again Teomitl was gone.

Things moved very quickly after that.

Yes, the knife shard was definitely impregnated with Tezcatlipoca’s power. No, His priests had no idea where it could have come from and were downright insulted by the notion that it could have been one of them, suggesting it was a rogue sorcerer—which didn’t narrow it down in the slightest. No, nobody knew the dead man; like the others, he’d been a recent arrival to Tenochtitlan, a porter with no connections in the city or anyone who could have wished him harm. The merchant who’d most recently hired him barely even remembered his name.

Acatl did, though. He made sure of it. Quiahuitl, age around thirty-five, born in Tlacopan. No living relatives aside from an elderly aunt, also in Tlacopan, who would probably never know of her nephew’s murder. When he heard that, he thought of his own nieces and nephews and had to take a moment to breathe. _I’ll give you justice. I swear._ Calling up his soul for answers only gave them a vague direction within the city—south—and no further leads.

But Teomitl was as good as his word, and that helped immensely. In the days following his discovery of the shard, Acatl grew used to at least one seasoned warrior hovering around the gates of his temple; evidently Teomitl had ordered them to put themselves at his disposal, and though he was leery of pushing their loyalty too far he had to admit it was wonderful having extra sets of legs with which to cover ground. Teomitl himself showed up two days into their investigation to see how they were progressing.

...And also, apparently, to ensure Acatl remembered to eat food and catch more than three hours of sleep, which he snapped out in a huff and followed up with “Mihmatini worries about you.” It didn’t in any way detract from the way he was blushing. Acatl ate the meal he’d brought over and tried very, very hard not to think about that.

Mostly he succeeded. There was work to do, after all. Still, he had to sleep, and while his body was exhausted his mind began to race as soon as he laid down. Teomitl was fitting into his role as though it was made for him, arrogance polishing itself into steady authority and his usual impatience visibly kept in check. The more Acatl watched him with his warriors, the more he could hardly believe he’d had a hand in shaping him into the man he’d become. There’d been a moment, backlit by the sun, where he’d looked at him and nearly been bowled over by the depth of his pride.

But it wasn’t pride that kept him awake. He stared up at the dark ceiling without seeing it, because his mind’s eye was full of the long line of Teomitl’s spine, the rippling muscles of his arms and shoulders, the radiance of his smile. His fingers twitched with the remembrance of how badly he’d wanted to take Teomitl’s hand in his. _Ah. I still love him._

Looking back, he couldn’t tell when it had begun; it seemed he’d simply woken up one day with the knowledge sitting in his heart like a hot cinder. The sky was blue. Water was wet. He, High Priest for the Dead, was in love with Teomitl. As much as he intended to go on ignoring it—Teomitl was not his to want for so many different reasons, not to mention that there was surely no way under the heavens the man would want him in return—it had a terrible tendency to resurface at the worst moments.

He closed his eyes. It didn’t help. _We have a sorcerer to catch. I have murders to stop. This...I cannot be distracted by my_ feelings. _It’s not as though I can ever tell him—gods, he’d probably never speak to me again. I have to forget about this._

Eventually, mind still full, he drifted off to sleep.

&

Of all people, it was Ezamahual who followed the traces of magic to a merchant’s warehouse in Zoquipan. The trail was old—whatever spells had been wrought there had begun to fade—but there was enough for a connection, and after a long night of questioning the people living around it, preparations begun. Its neighbors were all ordinary people with no magical training, but they were entirely forthcoming with what little they’d noticed. There had been tendrils of dark smoke in the air, a chill breeze coming from odd angles, men in plain cloaks slipping into the building in the dead of night when they all knew that the merchant who owned it had been away on business for nearly a year.

Acatl had made a promise to Teomitl, and he didn’t intend to break it. He sent word to the palace.

“We’re ready.”

 _Since you’re so determined to worry over me,_ he didn’t say. More and more, he was starting to wonder if the stories he’d shared of his cases before becoming High Priest had actually upset the man. It didn’t seem possible. Teomitl was a seasoned warrior who took enough risks with his own life; surely the idea of Acatl wading into danger wouldn’t affect him so.

He didn’t have much time to ponder it, though, because Teomitl arrived at the head of a small group of warriors barely an hour later. He looked just as resplendent in an ordinary warrior’s padded cotton tunic as he did in the full regalia of the Frightful Specter, and Acatl had a hard time tearing his eyes away. It was worse when he looked over Acatl’s assembled priests and flashed a thin blade of a smile. “Let’s go.”

They went.

Boats might have been faster, but the risk of alerting their quarry wasn’t one Acatl was willing to take. They strode through the city at a measured pace, and he found his gaze lingering on Teomitl’s back. The last time he’d been in Zoquipan…

“ _He’s mine. Aren’t you, Acatl-tzin?”_

He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering at that memory. He’d forgiven Teomitl, but it was impossible for him to ever forget the sick anger and the fear that had nearly choked him that day. He sent a brief prayer of thanks to the Duality that Chalchiuhnenetl had been effectively banished; Teomitl had informed him in a carefully neutral tone that she was living in Coyoacan now, about as far as you could get from anything and still be technically within city limits. She wouldn’t be breathing any more poison into Teomitl’s ear, and Teomitl had grown past any urges to listen to it. That, at least, would no longer be a problem.

But it was still a distraction, one he didn’t need. He grit his teeth and banished it from his mind. _No. I have to focus. The warehouse should be around here._

The buildings grew smaller and more densely packed as they walked, their frescoes less and less elaborate until they finally started to fade out entirely. There was something unsettling about all that blank white adobe, bare of even the shadow of paint. He tried not to let his gaze linger on it for too long. The people, too, seemed faded—not precisely shabby, for this wasn’t a poor part of town, but worn-out and too careful. _Old, beaten dogs,_ he thought. He wondered what else their quarry might have done.

“Hm.” Teomitl had fallen back to walk next to him, and was eyeing the area critically. He’d accepted a sword crafted of proper magical obsidian for this mission; now he rested a hand on its hilt as though contemplating when to lift it. “Does this place feel odd to you?”

Since he’d been trying to get his shoulders to unhunch themselves from up around his ears for the past quarter-hour—despite knowing that he’d dealt with Tezcatlipoca’s creatures before, his body was having other ideas and seemed determined to ring the alarum bells—he grimaced at the question. “It does. What are you thinking?”

“...That this area shouldn’t be this…” He waved a frustrated hand. “Dark. It feels dark. I don’t like it.”

He nodded. “How does your magic feel?”

Teomitl closed his eyes on a slow exhale. When he opened them again, jade reflections swam in his pupils for an instant before vanishing. “It doesn’t _feel_ as though there’s been a curse or anything cast recently, but…”

Just to be sure, Acatl cut his own earlobes and whispered the words of a spell. Nothing. They were still walking down the same quiet street with warriors and priests surrounding them in a tight formation, Teomitl all jade-green brilliance by his side. “I don’t see anything. Stay on your guard.”

Teomitl snorted. “As though I’ve been off it since we got here?”

“You’re not the only one who worries,” he snapped without thinking. He regretted it almost immediately; an argument at this stage would be the farthest thing from helpful, and there was little Teomitl hated more than being an object of concern.

But Teomitl—for once—wasn’t arguing. He turned his face away, but not before Acatl caught the faint tinge of red in his cheeks. “Hrmph.”

He pinched his ears to stop the flow of blood. It was that or give into the sudden, absurd desire to swipe a thumb across one of those high cheekbones and see just how hard that made Teomitl blush. Sternly, he banished the thoughts from his mind. _He’d probably take my hand off for the insolence, and I’d deserve it. I don’t have the right._

After a long moment, Teomitl spoke again. “...It wasn’t like this before. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh?”

Teomitl’s gaze slid over the entrances of houses and his warriors’ faces with the same coldness. He didn’t look in Acatl’s direction. “Chalchiuhnenetl wouldn’t have tolerated a thing like this in her domain. Her departure must have created a space for these bastards to flourish.”

He took a breath. “...Do you regret—“

“ _No.”_ It came out in a near-snarl. “I only wish I could have removed her from the Fifth World altogether.”

Then he _did_ turn his face back towards Acatl, and Acatl’s breath caught at the look in his eye. He’d seen Teomitl furious, of course, but not like this. Not accompanied by so much self-recriminating guilt, as though by failing his own high standards he’d failed Acatl too. It made something twinge hard in his chest. “...Teomitl…”

Teomitl stiffened, shaking his head. “Never mind. We need to keep moving. You said it’s not far?” At Acatl’s nod, he switched to his usual impatient stride.

Acatl kept pace, unable to stop himself from glancing at Teomitl out of the corner of his eye. Teomitl’s spine was rigid and his muscles tense; he wanted, desperately, to take his hand. He settled for brushing against his arm as they walked, resolutely closing his mind to all acknowledgment of the way Teomitl shivered at the touch. It meant nothing. For his own sanity, he had to believe it meant nothing.

Then another two warriors slipped out of a side street with a nod at Teomitl, falling into step with them as they turned a corner. He knew they were close. As they continued, a ripple of alertness ran through his priests; he felt his own blood turn to ice as a yawning cavern opened in his gut.

“Acatl-tzin?” One of his newer priests drew close, biting his lip.

He set his hands on his knives, feeling the staccato beat of _wrong wrong wrong_ pulse through him. Even his previous encounter with Tezcatlipoca hadn’t made him feel quite this ill, and he willed himself not to retch. The raw emptiness of Mictlan didn’t help much. “We move in. Quietly.” _Gods, I hope we’re not too late._ The previous murders had all been roughly two weeks apart, but it wasn’t impossible that the perpetrator had decided to speed things up, especially if they felt threatened. And it had taken only four deaths last time for Tezcatlipoca to be summoned into the world.

 _It’s not the same._ He breathed out slowly, seeking calm. _All the victims last time had obsidian mirror shards in their hearts, and it looked from the outside as though their hearts had simply given out. These men were strangled, their hearts torn out—it’s not an overreaching god trying to meddle in the Fifth World. No, these deaths were by mortal hands, and mortal hands will avenge them._

They made it within sight of the building—small and nondescript, no windows, exactly the same as every other building on the street—when he felt the tension in the air _snap._

He reeled. Around him he was vaguely aware of his priests crying out, heard the confused mutters of Teomitl’s warriors, but he couldn’t respond. All within him was a howling abyss, a screaming tempest that filled his nose with the stench of a thousand funeral pyres and scorched his lungs when he tried to breathe. He dropped to his knees and felt pain radiate up his legs from the impact with the packed earth, but the choked-off scream that gurgled out of his throat had nothing to do with any bodily injury.

 _Chaos. This is—_ He blinked frantically, but his eyes refused to focus. Black spots danced at the edges of his blurry vision, and for a terrible moment he thought he was going to faint.

“Acatl?!”

Teomitl, frantic. He dimly registered strong, calloused hands on his shoulders, but he couldn’t make his own hands work long enough to do anything about them.

“Something’s happened,” he gasped.

Teomitl’s hands left him. He didn’t shout, but the clear authority in his voice must have gotten everyone’s attention anyway, because the noise around them abated. “Stop.”

“Acatl-tzin, are you—“

He forced himself upright on shaky legs, breathing hard. Slowly his vision cleared, and he became aware that his priests, though shaken, hadn’t been affected nearly as badly as he had. There _was_ the occasional magical downside to being a High Priest. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”

Teomitl hadn’t gone far, and now he studied him thoughtfully for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and turned to address his warriors. “You heard Acatl-tzin. Be ready for anything.”

They advanced as a loose unit. Acatl saw hands resting on sword hilts, noticed the way a few of the other priests were nervously hefting their knives.

As they drew closer to the building, he could _taste_ the magic; it hung thick and acrid on his tongue. _Pyres. The smoke of an erupting volcano. The blood of jaguars. Obsidian, heated until it melts and then reshaped into—into—gods, no—_

He broke into a run.

Of course, the warriors all outpaced him immediately, but he and his priests formed a tight knot hard on their heels. They burst into the warehouse nearly at the same time; he almost ran right into Teomitl’s back when the man stopped suddenly, staring into the dark room beyond. “Southern Hummingbird _blind_ me.”

Then he stepped aside so the rest of them could enter, and Acatl was hard-pressed not to echo him. _We’re too late. Duality strike me down for a fool, we’re too late._

The warehouse itself was empty; whatever had been stored there had long since been moved out. In its place, someone had traced a quincunx and glyphs that covered nearly the entire floor, fresh blood covering the old ones until Acatl couldn’t tell what they’d been originally. _Sloppy,_ mused the analytical part of his brain. _Or else each ritual was only intended for a single use._ He couldn’t tell immediately if all the blood used had been human; if so, it represented far more than the three dead men they’d found.

No, he corrected himself. The _four_ dead men they’d found.

The last one was on the opposite end of the room outside of the array; he had been laid on a curved stone, the better to pull out his heart. Acatl skirted the edges of the room carefully to take a closer look, aware all the time of Teomitl behind him.

The dead man’s blood was still steaming. He knew what he would feel when he touched the skin, but he did it anyway. He needed only a brief moment to confirm his suspicions. “He’s still warm. This happened a few minutes ago, at most.”

One of the priests tilted his head back to glare up at the opening in the roof as though it would provide answers. “Nobody’s here. Surely we should have seen it if they’d climbed out?”

A burly warrior swore and snarled, “We’ve been watching the area all day; nobody’s left!”

Teomitl raised his voice. “Search everywhere—“

Something covered the skylight, and they were plunged into darkness so absolute that Acatl couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face.

_No. Oh, no._

He didn’t dare move. From the noises around him, the rest of their forces weren’t following suit; he heard thuds and curses and a distinct grumble of “That was my _foot,_ Chimalli!” He wondered how they were even finding the words to complain. His own tongue seemed to have been frozen to the roof of his mouth, and he could no more have spoken than he could have sprouted wings.

The air stung his eyes. He blinked, breathed in, and tasted smoke again. Slowly, he regained control of his tongue. “Move towards the entrance. Whatever’s coming, we don’t want to be trapped in here with i—“

A frigid tide of magic knocked him off his feet and sent him crashing hard, back-first, into a rough adobe wall. He curled instinctively to protect his head, but it still rattled him; when he could think again, he registered the burn of scraped skin and a distinct throbbing ache that would no doubt be a spectacular bruise tomorrow. _Teomitl. He was_ _next to_ _me. Where…?_

He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The dead man was sitting up. The smoke and darkness that had filled the room had been wrapped around his limbs; Acatl saw the shadows of a jaguar headdress, the crumbling remains of a shinbone and foot wrapped in something like the ghost of obsidian, and felt his insides turn to ice. Around him, the warriors and priests they’d gathered had been flattened to the ground in groaning agony; those who had been furthest from the epicenter were staggering painfully to their feet. None of them had been able to reach their weapons yet. Teomitl had been flung into the opposite wall, and from the way he was favoring one hand Acatl prayed he hadn’t injured something.

It seemed to take an eternity for him to stand and draw his knives. By the time he managed it, Tezcatlipoca had swung His legs down off the sacrifice stone and was looking over the assembled warriors with the air of a nobleman inspecting a merchant’s stall and finding only shoddy goods. “So this is how I am greeted?”

“No.” It was too soft, and he lifted his voice. He couldn’t draw enough breath to scream. _“No.”_

The god turned slowly, head tilted. The empty space where His heart had been shone green and horrible. “Oh,” Tezcatlipoca said with a rictus grin. “Little Acatl. I remember you.”

It hurt to breathe. He sucked in air anyway. “Then you remember what happened last time, _my lord._ Let the man go, and return to your place in the heavens.”

“...Hmmm.” Tezcatlipoca’s grin didn’t budge. “I don’t think so. This world deserves a new order.”

Then he opened his arms, and the array flared to life.

The surge of magic brought Acatl to his knees, but that probably saved his life; when the first ashen jaguar leapt from the quincunx, its spots black voids, he was able to dodge its first swipe and slice sideways at its paw, pinning it to the ground and buying himself just enough time to scramble out of range.

Some of his priests weren’t so lucky. He heard screaming, felt the bursts of magical protections activating and living blood hitting the edges of obsidian knives, but he didn’t have time to look. The jaguar still had a second front paw and a set of enormous fangs, and it was doing its best to rip itself free for another try at him.

An arm landed nearly at his feet. One of the screaming voices cut off with a horribly final gurgle. He dropped to one knee again, discovered to his considerable relief that Tezcatlipoca’s jaguars _did_ die when they were stabbed in the throat with magical obsidian, and risked the briefest of glances to see how the battle was going.

It was chaos.

All around him men were fighting for their lives; the jaguars outnumbered them two to one, and though they died like any animal they seemed to get stronger as more blood was spilled. With a spike of horror, he saw one flow _around_ a sword-strike, rippling like water, and savage the warrior holding it. The last time any of his priests had been in battle like this had been when Tlaloc had made his bid for the Fifth World, but the same tactics that had served them well against Tlaloc’s creatures weren’t working nearly as well here. The air was full of a choking miasma that weighed on the limbs, making it hard even for Acatl to breathe; he wasn’t sure how the rest of them were managing.

Teomitl, at least, had had the presence of mind to summon his ahuizotls. He fought surrounded by them, jade-carved and glorious, adding algae and deep water to the stench in the air, and for a moment Acatl had hope. It lasted until a jaguar bit one of his ahuizotl’s heads off, and the magical backlash dropped Teomitl to a knee just in time to grapple with it.

 _I have to fight. I have to…_ But there wasn’t enough clear space anywhere for a quincunx, and some effect of Tezcatlipoca’s incarnation seemed to be slowing his thoughts. The god himself was lounging on His sacrificial stone as though it were a throne, watching the battle with undisguised glee, and Acatl hated Him. With effort, he rose and took a step forward.

The wind blowing through his soul rose to a mourning wail, and he gasped at the chill that seized his bones—but when a lament sounded in his mind, he could have wept in relief.

_Acatl. I am coming._

He didn’t think he’d _ever_ been so glad to hear the Wind of Knives. _We took Him down once. We can do it again._

He flung himself into the fray. All else faded but the need to keep moving, to keep his allies safe. Lord Death’s protection flowed over him like a veil—meager in the face of so many jaguars, but the cold pit of despair under his ribs kept him alert and went some way towards clearing his mind of Tezcatlipoca’s smoke. It, and his knives, would have to be enough to hold them until the Wind of Knives arrived from His cenote. He slit the throat of one jaguar, narrowly dodged the grasping claws of another, and nearly collided with a priest clutching the stump of his arm as the life faded from his eyes.

 _We’re losing ground._ A coil of intestines wrapped around his ankle, and he nearly stumbled before catching himself and turning it into a swipe along the ribcage of a jaguar trying to maul one of Teomitl’s warriors. The man barely had a moment to catch his breath before he was screaming, choked and awful, as another one latched its jaws around his neck.

Another scream cut off behind him. He whirled to meet a jaguar, its jaws bloody, only to recoil as an ahuizotl literally dragged it backwards and went for its eyes. _Thank you, Teomitl._ But there was another to replace it, and as he fought for his life he heard—felt—a warrior die. A priest was next. Another warrior, this one collapsing in front of him with his face gone.

He sucked in a breath and clamped it behind his teeth before it could escape in a scream of pure rage. _No._

He forced himself towards Tezcatlipoca, shutting his ears to the sounds of men dying around him. _If I kill him, this ends._ He could feel the Wind of Knives drawing ever closer, and when He arrived the tables would turn. They could hold out until then. He was sure of it. He lost a knife in a jaguar’s ribs, picked up a sword from a fallen warrior’s hands and swung blindly, savagely, at anything in his way until it splintered—and he didn’t look behind him or around him, because if he let himself be distracted then all was lost. He just had to get into position for when the Wind of Knives arrived...

It was growing horribly silent. The god was watching the carnage avidly, giggling to Himself as blood splattered the floor—but then His gaze fell on Acatl, and He frowned thoughtfully.

“Hmm...I think not.”

A jaguar bore him to the ground, and he screamed as its claws raked his back. Pinned on his stomach, he couldn’t even twist out of its hold. _This is it._ He couldn’t breathe. He knew, with distant clarity, that a rib had been broken. Cold, stinging smoke blew over the back of his neck. _This is where I die._

“Acatl!”

Jade Skirt’s magic like a flood washing over him. A crunch—the jaguar went limp, heavy dead weight for a moment before dissipating into smoke—and then, before he could even rise, a scream. _Teomitl’s_ scream, raw with pain. A wet thud.

He was on his feet before he even realized he was moving, utterly blind to the searing agony radiating from his ribs through every limb. All the men they’d brought with them were dead or dying, and Teomitl was crumpled on the ground with a jaguar’s bloody claws in his chest. His tunic had been ripped apart, loose fabric dyed crimson with his blood; Acatl couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

“Teomitl.” It came out in a flayed whisper.

Teomitl made a sound. It was more of a gurgle than anything else, but it meant he was alive. _Barely._ Acatl could see the dull gleam of exposed bone and knew that they were out of time. That they wouldn’t be able to stall until the Wind of Knives arrived, because unless Teomitl saw a healer—and gods, he was trying to _move,_ he’d only bleed out _faster_ —he was going to die. That he’d cared for him in a thousand small ways, had made a home for himself in his heart, had just saved his _life_ , and he was bleeding out in front of Acatl’s eyes.

Red rage descended over him, and he lunged for Tezcatlipoca.

The likelihood of his own death, any possible strategy—it all vanished from his mind. All he could think about, all that mattered, was sending Tezcatlipoca back to His place in the heavens as swiftly and as violently as possible. _You hurt him. You dared—you dared lay your hands upon—_

The raw scream that burst from his throat was cut short when Tezcatlipoca grabbed his arm, His touch like being flayed with dull knives, and tossed him aside like a ragdoll. Acatl hit the ground and rolled, landing hard on his side; all he could do was lay there, stunned, and watch as Tezcatlipoca strolled over to where Teomitl had fallen. “...No...”

Negligently, the god waved his jaguar away. “Oh, stupid mortal. This isn’t _like_ the last time.” His voice was a thing of unholy glee.

Acatl couldn’t move. Everything hurt, and he was sure his arm was broken. Each breath scorched his lungs and sent a nauseous spike of agony through his chest. He could barely even feel his fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife. If he’d had enough breath, he was sure he’d be weeping.

And the god was still _talking._ “You see, this time, little Acatl...I don’t have a heart for you to stab.” He knelt over Teomitl’s prone form and grabbed his jaw, cruelly forcing his head up so Acatl could see his face. “So I’m going to take the man who holds yours. I think that’s a fair trade.”

_No._

_No._

It beat in his head like a heartbeat, and he couldn’t think past the enormity of it. “You can’t.” Somehow he got his feet under him and pushed himself up with his good arm. He nearly slipped in a puddle of blood; though he caught himself on one knee, it winded him, and he had to take a moment to breathe. “I—will _not_ —allow it.”

Tezcatlipoca laughed, high and cruel. “You can’t stop me.”

Acatl closed his eyes. He didn’t have time for a long ritual; he could barely focus on the words of even the simplest spells. The Wind of Knives would never arrive in time. All he had was a single knife and raw determination.

And he was High Priest for the Dead facing an inhabited corpse, a transgressor of the boundaries he kept, in a room full of men whose living blood was still dripping from the walls to soak into the floor.

_Yes. I can._

His fingers tightened on his knife hilt, feeling the ridges of the leather cord wrapping for an instant before he opened himself up to the power stored within the underworld obsidian, that direct connection to Mictlan he’d only ever called on once before. It didn’t get easier the second time. The bottom dropped out of his stomach, rage draining out in favor of a deep, hollow emptiness. He felt dry dust under his fingers, felt the way his bones ached and shifted under his skin. In his mind rose the lament of lost souls carried on a chilling, biting wind. _We go down into the dust, into the darkness. We go down, Lord of the Place of Death, to stand before Your throne._

There was a ritual he’d been taught when he ascended to his place as High Priest, one that had almost never been used in the history of the Empire. There was fresh, wet blood on his hands.

His eyes snapped open. The skin of his hands was smoke and translucent obsidian, gray dust like clouds where the fibers of muscle should be. He could make out his own bones underneath it all, glowing like distant torches or the last shimmers of moonlight at the bottom of the lake. The faintest breeze in the air brought the dying whispers of a ghostly lament to his ears, stirring the loose ends of his hair.

Tezcatlipoca was still smirking, gently amused. “Good, you’ve decided to watch while I kill him. I knew you were no coward.”

The blood splattering the floor pulsed like a heartbeat. In, out. In, out. The blood of a dozen men slain in battle, their souls not yet delivered to the Sun’s Heaven. One living High Priest with a blade of underworld obsidian to direct the flow of magic.

“O Lord,” he breathed, “I deliver this transgressor to You.”

He saw the exact moment Tezcatlipoca realized what he was going to do; the god’s eyes widened, and then He was flowing towards him like a jaguar Himself, all smoke and teeth and fury. In a moment He’d be on him, and then they would stand no chance.

Acatl slashed open the back of his hand, tracing a quincunx in his own blood, and slammed it down onto the nearest dead man’s face.

The man’s spirit erupted from his cooling skin. His comrades’ souls joined his, flowing out of open mouths and open wounds like smoke. Those who had lost limbs were limbless now; those whose heads had been torn off were headless. Gaping wounds bled gray, powdery dust into the air. They formed a wall around Acatl, but he could still see through them—could see Tezcatlipoca stop midstride, could see Him slowly and instinctively take a step backwards as though freezing in place would protect Him.

The ghosts descended, and the god _screamed._

There were words in that scream—something about how he was going to reign, how they had no right to stop him—but Acatl was past caring about it. All he could do was hold onto the magic running through him, the underworld flowing in a torrent through his veins. While he focused, the ghosts would maintain their forms and their connection to the Fifth World, and he couldn’t let them go until it ended. Until the sliver of Smoking Mirror’s power was fully severed from the body He’d borrowed, banished back to the Heavens.

His lungs burned. His heart beat slow and sluggish in his chest. He rose and took a step forward, and it felt like he was moving through tar.

He spoke, and the syllables lay on his tongue like the finality of the grave. “Your time is not yet come.”

He felt it when Tezcatlipoca’s presence in the Fifth World vanished; the smoke and ash in the air dissipated, and the heavy mist that had hung over his mind began to clear. When he breathed, he smelled only blood and fresh death. As the body dropped—now only so much meat—he took another breath, filling his lungs, and ran the flat of his knife over his bloody hand until his connection to the underworld was severed.

The ghosts left gratefully, voices like the rustling of dry leaves. _Thank you. Thank you,_ _priest_ _._

He wobbled on his feet, drained down to the marrow of his bones. He felt halfway to being a ghost himself; for an instant it was hard to remember who he was or what still had to be done.

Then it came back to him in a flash and he ran, stumbling through gore and fatigue, to Teomitl’s side.

Teomitl was still laying where he’d fallen, one hand pressed to the ruin of his torso. Up close, the extent of his injuries took Acatl’s breath away. He’d been mauled; a drawing swipe of razor-sharp claws had opened his chest to the bone and continued all the way to his stomach, deep enough to slice through the muscles of his abdomen. As Acatl approached, he turned and blinked blindly in his direction. “Ah...Acatl…”

Acatl dropped to his knees next to him, tearing off his cloak with shaking hands. His abused arm screamed, but he ignored the pain. He had to stop the bleeding before he could do anything else—but Duality, there was _so much blood._ “Don’t try to talk.”

He pressed the cloth directly on his wounds, and Teomitl didn’t even flinch. He’d lost a lot of blood already; the heartbeat under Acatl’s fingers was distressingly weak. “Mm.” He tried to raise his head, but flopped bonelessly down a moment later.

 _No. Please, gods, no._ For a moment he thought of calling on Mictlan’s chill—to slow the heart, not stop it, but that was a delicate balancing act at the best of times and he was too close to death already. No. Acatl squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the hot blood coating his hands. There was the faintest of tremors, and he pressed down harder. “Stay _still.”_ It came out cracked and raw, and he wasn’t sure Teomitl even heard it.

Teomitl shifted minutely under his touch—disobeying him for what, _please the Duality,_ could _not_ be the last time. His voice was so soft that Acatl almost missed it. “No. Have to tell you...it’s very important.”

“Not as important as _your life!”_ He barely even recognized his own voice.

“No.” A long, wheezing breath. “I love you.”

 _He loves me._ It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible that he was hearing this now, of all times, with the man dying in his arms. He was, for a moment, absolutely sure that no air was making it to his lungs. _“Teomitl.”_ He opened his eyes again, glaring down at him and feeling the words like knives in his throat. “By all the gods, _shut up.”_

Teomitl’s smile was red and horrible, blood staining his teeth. Acatl could have wept. “Couldn’t tell you before. Didn’t...I know you don’t feel the same. But I wanted...to make sure you knew.”

Acatl couldn’t breathe. He was choking on the tears sliding down the back of his throat. “No. No, Teomitl, you’re wrong, I love you too—“ Teomitl coughed wetly, and he felt his pulse stutter. Before he knew it, he was grabbing his hand and squeezing it like a lifeline, eyes burning with unshed tears. “Teomitl, Teomitl, I love you _so much_ but you have to stay with me, please!”

There was a strangled, awful attempt at a laugh. “Stop...trying to spare my feelings. I know what a mortal wound looks like, Acatl.”

 _No. No, gods, no._ “It’s not mortal—it’s not, you’ll be fine, you just have to lay still! Help is coming, I promise, just—“ He cut himself off with a sob. _I can’t lose you. Not you._

A shaking, bloodstained hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb gently stroking away his tears. “...Should have told you sooner.”

The hand fell.

Grief and terror surged through his veins with a ferocity that nearly sickened him, and for a moment all he could do was curl around Teomitl and fight back tears. He wanted to weep. He wanted to break something. He wanted to carry Teomitl in his arms and run to safety, but his arm was _broken_ and Teomitl’s injuries were so severe that moving him unwisely would only deal further damage. _Duality—gods, please. Please don’t take him from me._

He felt the Wind of Knives’ arrival as a spike of agony in his skull, but didn’t bother turning around. Keeping pressure on Teomitl’s wounds was more important. His pulse was fluttering like a trapped bird, and Acatl really didn’t like the way he was breathing. _Gods, let him not have punctured a lung too._

The minor god’s voice at this distance was enough to send a chill down his spine. “I see you didn’t need my help.” He sounded almost amused. If the circumstances had been different, Acatl would have punched Him. Never mind that it wouldn’t have done anything; the pain of his fist on the obsidian would have matched the way he felt inside.

“Teomitl does.” His voice cracked on the words. “Find _someone_ —”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, the knife-points of the obsidian shards barely even tickling. “Rest. Do not weep. You have been a valiant comrade, Acatl, and for that I will grant you this favor.”

The Wind of Knives swept out the door, and he took a slow, shuddering breath. Another. Another.

By the time a half-dozen civilians burst into the room with the announcement that the High Priest of Patecatl had been sent for, he’d stopped crying. Teomitl’s heartbeat had remained steady under his hand, and he drew strength from that.

 _He’ll be alright,_ he thought. _He has to be._

&

It still took entirely too long for Acatl’s liking. The black-robed High Priest of Patecatl was an older man, hard-eyed and serious and not at all appreciative of being dragged halfway across the city with his entourage, but he took one look at Teomitl’s injuries and sucked in his breath before swearing softly and ordering Acatl to leave.

“But—“ he began.

“This is a very delicate process, Acatl. _Move.”_ Judging by his narrowed eyes and the set of his shoulders, he was prepared to shove Acatl out of the room himself if he was too slow.

Acatl moved. That this meant he could have his injuries looked at by one of the other priests was immaterial; even the grinding, nauseating pain of having a definitely-broken bone wedged into place and splinted before they began casting spells to speed its healing wasn’t enough to distract him from the increasingly frantic chanting going on inside. _Heavens, do not take him. Not yet. Please._

When Ichtaca arrived to relieve him of the task of dealing with their slain comrades, he had to take a moment to remember that he was, indeed, still the High Priest for the Dead. His tongue didn’t seem to want to work properly. His _mind_ didn’t seem to want to work properly. _Teomitl said he loves me._ “It was...Tezcatlipoca was summoned into the Fifth World. I banished Him, but...“

“Acatl-tzin.” His second was looking at him in something like pity. “You can tell us what happened later. Get some rest.”

“Our priests...the warriors...“

“We will handle their bodies.” He’d brought Palli and Ezamahual with him, and both men were eyeing Acatl as though they expected him to collapse any minute.

The priests of Patecatl were carrying Teomitl out on a stretcher, and his eyes followed the motion helplessly. From this distance, he could just make out the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Ichtaca didn’t smile, but his demeanor softened. _“Rest,_ Acatl-tzin.”

He started walking. He could rest at the Duality House, once he was sure Teomitl was safe.

The sun was low in the sky, tinting the light gold, and the realization took him aback. _Gods, was it really only this morning that we set out?_ It felt like it had been an eternity ago that he and his priests and Teomitl’s warriors had left his temple; his bones ached as though he’d been awake for years. He still couldn’t believe that he was alone, that Tezcatlipoca’s creatures had cut through the trained fighters he’d brought with him like a knife through wet paper. He drew a long, slow breath. _I only lived because He was toying with me. Because—Tlaloc’s lightning strike me, because He holds_ grudges. _I’ll have to be very careful around Him from now on._

Fatigue made his head swim, but he forced himself onwards. Patecatl’s priests moved in a seamless knot, eating up the ground in a similar purposeful stride to the one he’d come to associate with Teomitl—but where Teomitl’s pace seemed to suggest he held some sort of grudge against the ground, the healing priests’ antipathy extended to everyone in their way. He had absolutely no chance of catching up to them, but he could settle for keeping them in sight.

After Teomitl’s words, he refused to do anything else. _He loves me. He loves me, and he might yet die. He lost so much blood, and the Duality only knows what effects the Smoking Mirror’s touch might have had on him…_

By the time he staggered into the Duality House, it resembled nothing so much as a freshly-disturbed anthill. Priests of the Duality were clustered with Patecatl’s healers, and the courtyards seemed to host far more confused and dismayed warriors than they normally did—the normal number, after how Mihmatini had reacted to Teomitl’s attempt at a coup, being zero. He couldn’t see his sister in the crowds.

Just as he determined he should ask around, she strode out of a small receiving room with a face like thunder. The thread of magic that connected her to Teomitl was a line of fire around one ankle, and by the shaking of her hands she’d already been well informed of her husband’s state. Her _husband._ Acatl felt briefly sick. _Things between them may not be as they were, but he told me—gods. It will break her heart if she finds out._

Mihmatini took one look at him and her expression of barely-contained fury twisted; for a moment he was sure she was going to scream at him, but then she took a long breath and closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was steady. “I heard it was the Smoking Mirror. Come in; the healers are still with Teomitl.”

He followed her in. The room held only a fresco of flowering trees for decoration, but there was a table and two mats, and he collapsed onto one with relief. His legs felt like jelly. The next room had to hold Teomitl and the healers; though the entrance curtain was drawn, he could make out quiet chanting and the grassy smell of Patecatl’s magic. A slave must have been waiting for his arrival, because he was served water and a dish of frogs with tomatoes nearly as soon as he’d sat down.

She waited until he’d drank before addressing him. “So.”

“So,” he repeated. The food smelled wonderful, but he wasn’t tempted. He wasn’t sure he could keep anything down.

When she met his gaze, her eyes were hard as flint. “Tezcatlipoca.”

He took a deep breath and told her everything starting from the moment they’d reached the warehouse. By the end his hands were shaking, and he had to clench them into fists in a futile effort to keep his composure. _We thought we were going off to face a simple sorcerer. A dozen men are dead because we were wrong._

She covered his hand with her own. For a long while, they didn’t speak.

The first healing priest exiting the sickroom broke their strained silence. His voice was rough and low, as though he’d worn himself out chanting. “Teomitl-tzin will live. You can see him now.”

Mihmatini nearly rushed past him, all dignity as the Guardian forgotten. Acatl waited until all the healers had left, ignoring their sidelong glances, before testing whether his legs would even still support his weight. They did, but barely; he had to catch his breath, leaning on the table, before he could rise fully. The noble thing, the right thing, would be to give Mihmatini space with her husband. As damaged as their relationship had been after the attempted coup, he was sure her love for him hadn’t disappeared. He’d just be an interloper. Unwanted. _Intruding._

But Teomitl had told him he loved him, so he followed Mihmatini in.

Teomitl had been laid on a thick mat, his chest and stomach heavily bandaged and his right wrist splinted. His normally-dark skin was distressingly ashen; when Mihmatini clasped his good hand, he didn’t so much as twitch. She made an awful hitching gasp, and Acatl braced himself for her tears—but then she shuddered, inhaled deeply, and looked up at him with glimmering eyes. “Sit down, Acatl.”

Acatl sat, staring at Teomitl’s face. He’d never seen him so still, not even when the plague had struck him down. The bandages were very white against his skin. If he hadn’t been so drained—so _empty,_ after all the events of the day and the magical backlash of using his own body as the rallying standard for a dozen angry ghosts—he thought he might have joined Mihmatini in almost weeping. _I was the one who should have told you sooner, Teomitl._

“He’ll be alright,” Mihmatini murmured. She was stroking his hand now, so gently that it broke his heart.

 _She loves him. She loves him, and I’m a selfish monster for wishing she didn’t._ His voice felt like it was coming from very far away. “I know.”

“He’ll wake, and smile like he always does, and he’ll be back to driving me mad with his,“—she made a noise, and it took Acatl a moment to realize it was a twisted snort of amusement—“his _awful_ clinging in his sleep, and all the rolling around he does, and it will be _fine._ I won’t even want to strangle him over it. Much.”

“...Mm.” He hoped it sounded agreeable, and not as though the mental image was making something clench painfully in his gut. He had no right to be jealous over what he’d never have. When Teomitl woke, he would simply...never mention what the man had told him. Yes. That was a fine idea. His fingers twitched restlessly, and he wished he could wrap them around Teomitl’s hand instead.

She was silent for a long while. When she lifted her head to lock eyes with him, her tone was as matter-of-fact as though she was discussing the weather. “He’s really not that annoying, most of the time. I can see why you’re in love with him.”

Acatl froze, the breath knocked out of him. The yawning pit opening in his stomach had nothing to do with Mictlan. He couldn’t _think_ past the blood roaring in his ears, never mind meet Mihmatini’s gaze—but he couldn’t look away, either, and so he stared blankly through her without seeing her.

Her voice was soft and understanding, and that made it so much worse. “Does he know?”

He thought, briefly and shamefully, of lying. In the next minute he dismissed the idea; he wouldn’t do that to anyone over a matter like this, never mind his own blood. “...I told him. During— _I thought he was going to die in my arms.”_ His throat was so dry and tight he could barely force the words out. “But—Mihmatini—“ _I was never going to let it grieve you. I would never step between you two, I know it’s not my place, you’re his lawful wife and my favorite sister and I know how much you still care for him..._

She heaved a sigh of pure relief. “Thank the Duality, I was getting _sick_ of him sighing over you.”

“He—I’m sorry, _what?!”_

His brain seemed to have stopped working. Or perhaps there was something wrong with his ears. There was _no way_ she’d just said what he thought she said. He opened and shut his mouth, but no words came out.

And now the sigh was exasperated, and she was looking at him as though he was the stupidest man alive. While this was hardly unprecedented for her, he couldn’t help feeling it was—for once—undeserved. “You heard me.”

“I...I did, but…” But it didn’t make _sense._ Gods strike him for a fool, it didn’t make sense. “You knew?”

“I suspected while we were courting, but eventually...he told me himself. After the incident with his sister.” She huffed out a breath, brow furrowing at the memory, and he fought the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s the only reason I didn’t divorce him then and there. I would have, you know, if he’d said anything foolish like that he was trying to kill Tizoc-tzin for insulting me, or that he was only trying to remove a corrupt, useless Revered Speaker. And that was part of it, but do you know what he told me _first_ made him want Tizoc-tzin’s head on a spike?”

He shook his head mutely. He couldn’t imagine it.

She dropped her gaze to Teomitl’s bandaged chest, watching for each steady breath. “It was when he and Quenami tried to have you executed for treason.” There was a wry quirk of a smile. “I couldn’t blame Teomitl for that. Murder is an appropriate response in that case, you know!”

“...Oh.” It was all he could say. The memories of that time hadn’t faded in the least, and Teomitl’s seething anger back then suddenly made a terrible amount of sense. _It was for me. It was—because he loves me._ _He’d_ _even want to...gods._

Mihmatini shrugged as though she wasn’t upending his entire view of how the world worked. “I always knew I’d have to share his heart; I’m just glad it’s with you and not some concubine. I know you’ll treat each other well.”

“I…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat and made himself meet her eyes. “I’ll try.” _I don’t know how, but for him—I’ll try._

She reached across Teomitl to squeeze his good arm, and her smile warmed his heart. “Take joy where you find it, and with my blessing.”

He had to close his eyes as her words settled. _She knows. She knows, and she approves, and I...Duality, I don’t deserve such a sister. Her husband loves me, and I—I am allowed,_ encouraged, _to love him back. When he wakes...we can figure out where to go from there._

“...So long as I _never_ have to hear details.”

He choked, feeling his face catch fire. _“Mihmatini!”_

&

It took three days for Teomitl to open his eyes.

Acatl had foolishly thought that he would have the luxury of fretting over him. He quickly discovered he wasn’t so lucky; he barely had time to _breathe._ Funeral vigils for the slain warriors and his own dead priests had to be arranged, their families notified. The entire plot turned out to have been masterminded by the Smoking Mirror’s host himself, a sorcerer who’d declared himself a member of a group called the Sixth Sun Burning; further questioning of his friends and relations revealed that he was the _only_ member, supposedly making Tizoc froth with impotent rage at not having anyone to execute for it. Acatl was apparently still beneath the Revered Speaker’s notice no matter how many gods he banished, which he couldn’t help but be thankful for. By the time the merchant whose warehouse had been coopted for the scheme arrived, furious in his demand for answers, he was hard-pressed to keep his own temper.

Of course, as soon as he dismissed the merchant, an offering-priest burst into his receiving room. “Acatl-tzin—“ He had to stop and suck in a deep breath before continuing. “Teomitl-tzin has awoken—Mihmatini-tzin said you’d want to be informed—“

He was abruptly no longer tired. He couldn’t remember ever having _been_ tired. “Ichtaca. If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the Duality House.”

Ichtaca exchanged a long-suffering glance with the offering-priest. “Of course, sir.”

He ran.

Mihmatini met him at the gates to the Duality House. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her smile was soft and radiant. “He’s still weak, but he’s recovering well. He’ll be glad to see you.”

He had to stop and take a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. He knew he was blushing, but that couldn’t be helped. “...Thank you.”

Teomitl had been moved to the chambers he was sharing with Mihmatini at some point, the brilliant murals at odds with the stark furnishings. He looked exhausted, still ashen-faced and fragile around the edges, but he was sitting up with only a faint grimace of pain and picking carefully at a dish of flatbread with roasted peppers and fish. When Acatl pushed the entrance curtain aside, he set his plate down and stared up at him. “Oh. _Acatl.”_

“Teomitl,” he said helplessly. For a moment he couldn’t make his legs work, and then he took the three steps necessary to bring him to Teomitl’s side and sat down hard.

Teomitl was still staring at him as though he couldn’t get enough of the sight. Acatl saw the way his fists clenched in his lap, the little wrinkle of concern between his brows, and ached to soothe him. “You’re alright.”

Truthfully, he didn’t feel alright. The priests of Patecatl had only been able to do so much with what they’d had on hand, and he’d still had very little sleep. But none of that mattered now, because Teomitl was fidgeting and averting his gaze and he couldn’t forget what he’d came here for. “Look, about earlier—I don’t know how much you remember, but…” _I love you. I need to tell you properly._

Teomitl went rigid, gaze fixed on a point somewhere on the opposite wall. His voice lashed out like a whip. “I won’t apologize.”

 _What._ He found himself temporarily speechless before managing to get his tongue back in working order. “Apolo—did you not _hear_ me?”

“I.” Teomitl blinked at him. Acatl watched as he slowly turned red, jaw going slack until he shut it with an audible gulp. “Oh. Fuck. That’s what Mihmatini meant.”

“...You didn’t.”

Teomitl let out an annoyed huff, making an impatient stabbing motion with his hand. “I _heard_ you, but—I was bleeding out! I wasn’t even sure I was conscious! You picked a terrible time to confess.”

Well, now, that couldn’t be borne. He sucked in a breath. “Says the man who told me he loved me with a _hole in his guts—“_ But the sensation of hot blood flowing over his hands was still too fresh, and he had to cut himself off with a shudder.

“I thought I was going to _die,”_ Teomitl muttered. “I didn’t think I’d be around for you to reject me.”

“Well.” He swallowed hard, suddenly and unaccountably nervous. “I’m not.”

“...You’re not.” Teomitl’s blush was back with a vengeance, and he still wasn’t looking directly at him. But he patted the mat next to him, a clear invitation. “...Come here?”

_Oh._

Acatl shifted over to sit next to him. For the span of a few heartbeats they still didn’t touch, and he wondered if he was brave enough to make the first move—but then Teomitl’s hand shot out and latched onto his, and he made an entirely involuntary noise that definitely was _not_ a squeak. His heart was beating so hard it was a wonder it stayed in his chest; from the heat in his face, he knew he had to be at least as red as Teomitl was. When their fingers laced together, he found he had no words to describe it.

After a long moment, Teomitl broke the silence between them. “...I truly do...love you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it.”

There was a shy, soft smile on his face, and Acatl had to smile back. “There’s no need for apologies between us.” _Not for this. Not ever for this. You have my heart, no matter what._

Teomitl turned towards him, and he went breathless at the look in his eyes. He knew an instant before it happened that he was going to be kissed, and it was the easiest thing in the world to tilt his head and lean in. He’d imagined it before— _gods,_ had he imagined it, in the kind of detail that had left him frankly humiliated by his own lust afterwards—but nothing could compare to the reality of Teomitl’s mouth on his. He hadn’t expected it to be gentle, hadn’t expected the soft noise Teomitl made when he separated their joined hands to turn into an eager moan when Acatl dared to put an arm around him and pull him closer.

Even when they broke apart, Teomitl was smiling. Their noses brushed as he murmured, “I saw you avenging me, you know. You were magnificent.”

He averted his eyes, feeling something twist unpleasantly in his chest. _It wasn’t enough. You still nearly died._ “Hmph. Shameless flattery.”

“Acatl.” Warm fingers brushed his cheek. “Duality curse you, take the compliment for once.”

When he parted his lips to protest, Teomitl kissed him again. He decided not to argue.

There were better things he could do with his mouth.


	2. hope is our gravity

They had to stop kissing, eventually. Not that Acatl _wanted_ to—gods, he couldn’t believe he’d gone so long without it, every minute he wasn’t kissing Teomitl now felt like a tragic waste of time—but it turned out that not only was it possible to literally kiss someone breathless, doing so had a disagreeable tendency to suck all the moisture out of your mouth. And then, too, Teomitl was still weak from his injuries; when he arched his back with a groan that mingled pleasure with pain, Acatl pulled away with a murmured apology.

“Hmph,” Teomitl said into his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Acatl set a hand on his back, feeling the warmth of his skin through several layers of bandages. Teomitl was trembling a little, and he didn’t think it was from the lingering heat of their kisses. Gods, he could still feel that mouth on his. “You should eat. Regain your strength.”

“Mmm.” He was frowning as he drew away, but he dutifully returned to picking at his food.

Acatl spent a long moment just watching him, his heart so full that he thought it would burst. He _looked_ like he’d been kissed, hair ruffled and mouth red, and didn’t seem inclined to fix either one of those things. The warm hands currently wrapping up another bite-sized mouthful of fish and peppers in a piece of flatbread had just been on Acatl’s own skin, tracing old scars as though they were something precious. _I love you._ The words pulsed through him in time with his heartbeat, but even as he started to smile a second, more vicious thought crept in to steal his joy. _I love you, and I almost lost you._

Abruptly, not touching Teomitl was absolutely impossible. Before he could think better of it, he shifted closer and put an arm around his lover’s waist.

Teomitl twitched in surprise, a little like a startled hound. For an instant he didn’t seem to know what to do, and then he took a deep breath and slowly—infinitesimally slowly—relaxed until Acatl was rewarded with a solid warmth leaning against his side. He took a shallow breath as a disquieting realization hit him. _Has anyone other than Mihmatini ever simply held him?_ This close, he could see the way his lover’s jaw clenched to fight back a yawn.

“You could sleep.” _I’m not going anywhere._

Teomitl made a disgruntled noise. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

Since Teomitl wasn’t looking at him—he was instead determinedly applying himself to his meal as though each bite was a foe to be conquered—he gave into the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m well aware. But I seem to recall you fussing over me when my injuries weren’t nearly so severe, so you can hardly complain if I return the favor. I did _tell_ you I love you, didn’t I?” It came out huffier than he’d intended it to, and for a moment he thought he’d misstepped.

Then Teomitl, turning red, set his plate down and buried his face into the side of Acatl’s neck. His voice came out muffled by his skin. “You did. Your timing is still terrible.”

He couldn’t help but smile into Teomitl’s hair. It was tempting to pet down his side, and so he did—because he could, because now he was  _allowed_ . He kept his touch gentle, feeling the way it made him shiver. “I’ll have to keep repeating myself until it isn’t, then.”

“ _Acatl.”_

Even just the sound of his name  as a mortified complaint on Teomitl’s lips made his heart melt. Words failed him; all he could do was shift his weight so they both sat a bit more comfortably, Teomitl warm and heavy against him. The frescoes on the walls seemed to gleam a little more brightly.  _Chicomecoatl’s own luck must be with me, because I surely don’t deserve this._

Teomitl’s breathing turned slow and measured. He was quiet for so long that Acatl thought he’d fallen asleep, and then he murmured, “...Since when have you loved me, anyway?”

 _Gods._ “I don’t know,” he began, but almost immediately he realized it was partially a lie. He might not know when it started, but he knew the first time he’d been sure of it—the first time he’d looked at Teomitl and the realization that his feelings were far from platonic had dropped into his mind like the first rain after the dry season. At the time, he’d been horrified at himself; it seemed ridiculous in hindsight. “I think...certainly when you came to see me after the plague.”

Teomitl drew in a breath. “You remember that?” It didn’t sound as though it pleased him, and Acatl wondered why. Had he really regretted his actions that much?

He flattened his palm against the corded muscle overlaying Teomitl’s ribs, feeling the way it made his lover’s breath catch. “I’ll never forget. You were...you looked…” He shook his head. _“Imperial.”_ Gods, there was no way to describe the emotions that had swamped him on that day. Teomitl had lifted his head and was staring at him, but he kept his eyes on his lover’s discarded plate. “I knew I’d serve you—love you—with my whole heart.”

Teomitl made a soft noise, and when Acatl turned his head their mouths met again. It was soft and sweet, and when Teomitl breathed, “Mm, Acatl…” into the space between them he knew he was lost again.

 _Gentle,_ whispered the rational part of his mind. _He’s still injured._ But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from sliding his hand down over the curve of Teomitl’s hip, and when he did that Teomitl made a sound that had him deepening their kiss, burying a hand in Teomitl’s thick hair to pull him closer. He wanted—he _needed_ —more. It quickly turned almost biting, their lips parting for each other’s tongues just briefly enough to be intoxicating, and when Teomitl ran a hand over his chest and caught the edge of a nipple with one nail he gasped at the spark of pleasure.

When they pulled apart, Teomitl didn’t go far. His voice was rough, his eyes were shining, and he was beautiful. “All this time I thought I had no chance, that you were indifferent at best…”

The hand on his chest slid down over his stomach, and for a moment he couldn’t think past the entirely inappropriate surge of lust. Then his words hit him, and he felt his face go hot. “All this—I mean, how long have you…?”

At least he wasn’t the only one; Teomitl actually had to avert his gaze, voice lowering as though he was embarrassed by the answer he gave. “Months.” There was a short huff of laughter. “Sometimes I think it was even from the moment you threw a knife at me—“

He bristled. “I did not throw it _at_ you—“

“—but when Tizoc tried to kill you...that’s when I knew. The idea of losing you...it nearly killed me.” His voice grew softer and softer; when Acatl smoothed a hand over the back of his neck, he trembled. “I think it might have, if he’d succeeded.”

For a long moment, he found himself speechless. Memories flashed crystal-clear through his mind—the ahuizotls charging to his rescue, Teomitl’s hands on his knives for an instant before he handed them over, a cut-off comment that he didn’t look well. The way he’d smiled, as proud as anything, when he’d told him he’d broken out of his rooms to save him. _Duality. How must he have been feeling, knowing I might die?_ But that was a question he already knew the answer to. _The same way I felt when he was bleeding in my arms._ “...I’m here,” he whispered. “And I won’t leave you.”

Teomitl’s sweet smile made him blush all over again. “I know.”

What else could he do except kiss him? The first brush of soft lips against his made him hope, just for a moment, that he’d succeed in keeping it gentle. The last thing he wanted to do was jostle Teomitl’s still-healing wounds.

Teomitl, it seemed, had other plans. He let Acatl control the pace for the span of a heartbeat before surging up, twisting in Acatl’s arms like a snake to bury both hands in his hair and press him down onto the mat. Stunned, off-balance, he went willingly. The reeds were a little rough even through his cloak, but that came a distant second to the way Teomitl seemed determined to devour him. It was a kiss with teeth, and he let out a breathless moan when a knee nudged his thighs apart.

“We should—“ He cut himself off with a gasp, because Teomitl’s mouth had lowered to his throat and the heat of those lips on his skin sent desire simmering through his veins. “Ah—nnh, Teomitl, we need to figure out what to do about Tizoc-tzin.”

That got Teomitl’s attention, at least. When he lifted his head, his voice was a soft, dark thing, like a jaguar with its claws out. “I said I’d give it a few years, Acatl. But if you want…”

His heart was pounding. It took him a moment to breathe, and then he rasped out, _“No.”_

“Hm. Alright, then.” Teomitl shifted, bracing himself on the mat, and Acatl realized he was shaking with the effort. It seemed that not even nearly dying had taught him the value of knowing his own limits, and it made something soft unfurl in his chest.

When he pushed himself upright, gently folding them both back into a more-or-less seated position, Teomitl went without trouble. It left him essentially in Acatl’s lap, which wasn’t something he would ever complain about. Teomitl was just so _warm._ He indulged in holding him for a while before he spoke. “Mihmatini said...that you wanted to kill him for my sake.”

Teomitl inhaled slowly, letting it out in a sigh against his collarbone. His brief burst of energy seemed to have faded. “I did. I do.”

Another tide of emotion nearly swamped him, and he had to stroke Teomitl’s spine in a vain attempt to let it out. _I knew that_ _, but gods, to hear it from his lips…_ “Thank you,” he murmured. “For staying your hand.”

Teomitl’s lips curved in a soft smile against his skin. “I love you,” he said simply.

His heart skipped a beat. He’d seen what Teomitl was like in defense of those he loved. “Knowing that makes me even more grateful, you know. That you haven’t done it yet.” _When you could, and I know you could, but you say that you love me...and because of that, Tizoc-tzin keeps his throne another day._

“You asked me not to. As one man to another. I would have honored that, even if you didn’t return my affections.” Teomitl blew out a meditative breath and added, “That...that was why I didn’t tell you before...all that happened.”

Acatl blinked down at him. From this angle, he mostly had a good look at the side of Teomitl’s face, but he thought he saw him turning red. “Hm?”

Oh, he was  _definitely_ blushing. It was far more endearing than it had any right to be, especially when he muttered, “I  thought you saw me as a child, as someone you could never respect. I  wasn’t going to waste my breath if  that was true .”

“You.” He took a breath. “You have always been worthy of my respect. And as for the rest of that…” He couldn’t stop a smile. “I think the time for seeing you as anything less than a man has decidedly passed.” To prove it, he slid his fingers up the side of Teomitl’s neck and back down, digging in his nails just enough to wring a full-body shudder out of him.

Teomitl lifted his head. For a moment they locked eyes, his gaze hungry—and then he kissed him. Hard. He seemed to be determined to prove that his injuries were no barrier to this; though he was still leaning against him, a boneless weight in Acatl’s arms, the heat of his mouth and the little sounds he made when Acatl’s nails dug into his back were designed to tempt him to forget that. To lift him up, pull him all the way onto his lap, disregard all thoughts of weakness and recovery in a bid to tear his plain loincloth aside and—

He broke away with a groan, breathing hard, and ruthlessly pushed away the pounding heat of arousal. Now was _not_ the time. Thoughts were slow to trickle back into his mind, but then he remembered what he’d meant by bringing up Tizoc-tzin. “What I was— _going_ to say is that we have to be _careful_. He already hates me, and with how paranoid he is—if he turns his attention towards you…”

“I’ll handle him.” Teomitl’s smile was brief and sharp. If he hadn’t chosen that moment to lay a hand on Acatl’s chest in a reassuring little pet, it might have made him nervous.

Well. _More_ nervous. The part of his mind that always considered the consequences of his acts felt like a pot of water just about to boil, an unpleasant roiling mass of vows and politics and laws. There was no space for regrets—there would _never_ be space for regrets, not with Teomitl in his arms and in his heart—but he was suddenly far too aware of what they risked. “And we have to be discreet.”

Teomitl hummed, voice taking on a teasing lilt. “So I _shouldn’t_ cover you in gold and jade…?”

He felt himself flush. _“Teomitl.”_

His lover sighed, stroking his chest in a gentle, meaningless pattern. “I know you’re not one for luxuries. Don’t worry.”

He took a moment to imagine it—jade on his fingers, gold in his hair, beautiful slaves to attend his every whim. It made something squirm hot in his gut. Embarrassment, mostly. But hot on its heels came a surge of desire; yes, it was mortifying to picture himself being treated like a prince, but if Teomitl _really_ wanted to spoil him...well. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d say no. “Nngh. If you—if you must give me gifts, do try and keep them practical.”

“I will.” Teomitl huffed. “We have enough to worry about without Tizoc wondering where half our treasury’s wandered off to—and _yes,_ that was a joke, shush.”

 _My sister’s been a terrible influence on you,_ he thought fondly. Then he remembered their newest, greatest worry, and the warmth that had started to bubble up in his chest faded. Even though he still held Teomitl—a small furnace wrapped in sinewy muscle—he felt cold. “...The Smoking Mirror.”

Teomitl frowned thoughtfully. “Mm.”

The room around them was bright with sunlight and frescoes, but he saw none of it. His thoughts drifted back to that warehouse full of blood and carnage, and he swallowed through a throat that felt like ice. _Because of me. He set that trap—tried to kill Teomitl—because of me._ “I don’t think he’s done with us.”

“...No. We wouldn’t be that lucky.” He made a face. “So what do we do about it?”

Fear wanted to choke him, but he forced it back. His death was not upon him yet, and Teomitl was warm and alive in his arms. All else could be dealt with as it came. But he still struggled to find an answer, and it took a while before he responded. “I think...for now, the best thing to do is wait. The ritual I used—it severs the connection between a soul and any vessel in the Fifth World. Even for a god, it would take some time to come back from that. We’ve got a little space to prepare.”

Teomitl sighed. “If we’re fortunate, it will be another seven years until then.”

It was his turn to make an unhappy noise. _“If._ In the meantime, I think I’d best make an appointment to speak to Tezcatlipoca’s High Priest. He will know his god best.”

“Ah,” Teomitl said.

Acatl gradually became aware that Teomitl had probably heard that as a dismissal. And, on one hand, it would be prudent of him to make his farewells and leave now, in hopes of catching the man he meant to find as soon as possible. On the other hand, Teomitl was curled against him like he belonged there, and he’d always been weak to the way that he smiled. It was radiant as the dawn, warming him from the inside out, and he wanted to see it again.

One more kiss wouldn’t hurt. He’d stop by the temple of Tezcatlipoca later and see what Cozcatototl had to say.

&

He’d expected to make himself known to Tezcatlipoca’s Fire Priest, be politely turned away, and given a time to speak with the man that was more convenient for him. High Priest for the Dead he might be, but he was the son of peasants; Cozcatototl—the name meant “jewelled bird,” and he carried himself as arrogantly as one—was as nobly born as Quenami. No matter what his god had done, there was no reason to bestir himself on Acatl’s behalf.

And indeed, he had apparently picked a busy day; when he arrived at Tezcatlipoca’s temple, they were doing a fine impression of an overturned anthill. He waited by the gate, watching the chaos, and tried to regulate his breathing.

It was harder than he thought. The Smoking Mirror’s magic wasn’t especially inimical to his—no more than Huitzilopochtli’s or Tlaloc’s was, at any rate—but this was a god who’d decided to hate him personally, and some of that seething animosity was reflected in the gray-black magic that clung to His priests and temple. His chest was too tight; when he moved his head too quickly, black spots danced at the edges of his vision. He was sure he’d had a speech prepared—he’d thought it up during the walk from the Duality House, after taking his leave of Teomitl and Mihmatini—but he couldn’t quite remember what he was going to say.

He half wondered if retracing his steps might help, but that would require straying near the Duality House again. He wasn’t sure he quite trusted himself not to go right back inside. He and Teomitl had kissed until Teomitl’s eyelids had fluttered shut, until he’d breathed _Go on, Acatl, you have work to do,_ and even though his lover was sleeping now it was a terrible temptation just to watch him. And Mihmatini…

His dear, beloved, _favorite_ sister had clasped his hands in hers, beaming, and wished him luck. Right before telling him, so casually, that if he could deal with Teomitl’s sleeping habits he was a far stronger and more patient person than she was. He hadn’t stopped blushing until the entire Duality House compound was out of sight.

“Acatl-tzin?!”

Tezcatlipoca’s Fire Priest bustled up to him. Underneath the black stripes of his paint, the older man looked exhausted. Acatl couldn’t remember his name offhand, but he bowed and hoped that politeness would make up for his lapse of memory. “Good afternoon. I have somewhat pressing questions for your high priest.”

The man didn’t exactly wince, but he nevertheless managed to give the impression that Acatl had asked for something much more difficult than a meeting. “Ah. Wait—wait right here and I’ll fetch him, shall I?”

As he bustled off, Acatl leaned against the gatepost to wait. The stone that should have been warmed by the sun bit into his skin; the logical course would have been to remain upright, but in truth he was glad of the excuse to lean against something. Being with Teomitl, even when the man was recovering from such severe injuries, took an unexpected amount of energy. He wondered, briefly, what he would be like on the mat—and then he flushed, shaking his head as though that would clear out such thoughts, because this was _absolutely_ not the right time or place for him to be imagining that. _Focus. Southern Hummingbird blind me, am I so desperate for him that I can’t even focus on the safety of the Fifth World now that I have him?_

He didn’t have much time to castigate himself. He’d barely had enough time to scuff some of the dust of the Sacred Precinct off his sandals before he made out Tezcatlipoca’s High Priest nearly running down the steps of the temple. The black and yellow stripes on his face didn’t quite hide the stress in his eyes; even when he slowed down to a stately pace and bowed to the precise degree necessary, his hands twitched as though he’d quite like to clench them into fists.

“Acatl-tzin.”

Acatl bowed back, keeping his eyes on him. “Cozcatototl-tzin. Might we speak privately?”

Was it his imagination, or did Cozacatototl flinch at that? “Of course.”

Then he was turning on his heel and striding off, and Acatl found himself hard-pressed to match his pace as he wove around his scurrying priests and led the way to a richly appointed meeting room. The murals depicted Tezcatlipoca in all His glory; He covered the walls as both the jaguar and the chilling night wind, tearing at the flesh of His sacrifices. The wall opposite the door was almost entirely taken up by a fresco of Him seated between His consorts, all four of His wives greeting Him as supplicants no matter that they were powerful goddesses in Their own rights. Acatl felt vaguely uncomfortable looking at it.

Not that he had much time to study it, because Cozcatototl was calling for refreshments and gesturing for him to be seated on a thick reed mat laid over a black ocelot pelt, so courtesy demanded he at least nod to his host. “Thank you.”

Cozcatototl definitely flinched at that. “It is the least I could do.”

As they sat, Acatl took a moment to study the man across from him. He was younger than him, with the sleek and well-fed look of a man who’d never gone hungry a day in his life. His hair had been matted with blood; amidst the tangles, he spotted the glint of gold and obsidian. Some priests of Tezcatlipoca slashed the backs of their own calves to imitate their patron’s limp; though he’d piously followed suit, he walked straight.

And he kept _fidgeting,_ even when cold cups of maguey sap and a plate of roasted agave worms were set in front of them. It was a far cry from the snappish, offended young man that had insisted his priests had had nothing at all to do with the sorcerer’s knife.

At least the food was good. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. It took a moment—and the accidental demolishing of half the plate—before he realized they’d been sitting in silence, and he still had no idea how to bring up what he’d came for. “Mm.”

Cozcatototl took a breath and braced his hands on his thighs. “Acatl-tzin. I…”

That didn’t sound like the prelude to _what in the Fifth World do you want._ He set down his cup and frowned. “Yes?”

“I wish to apologize.” It looked like the words actually pained him; if he hadn’t been so clearly striving for dignity, Acatl was sure he’d be wincing.

Well. That was unexpected. “For what?”

“For—“ He made a frustrated stabbing motion with his hand. “I’ve heard you once stopped my patron from taking His place as the Sixth Sun ahead of His proper time. He can be vindictive and easily angered, but I had no idea He would take your previous encounter with Him so personally!”

Acatl blinked at him. Of all the possible reactions Cozcatototl could have to the news of his patron god’s defeat, he hadn’t expected guilt. _The world would be a better place if Acamapichtli reacted the same when I_ _faced_ _Tlaloc,_ he thought sourly. “You…”

He sucked in a hard breath. “If I’d thought of it, I could have warned you. I didn’t—it didn’t even _occur_ to me until after I heard how your little expedition went.”

Blood and carnage painted itself across the inside of his mind, and he suppressed a shudder. _No. I left Teomitl safe and sleeping. He is recovering perfectly well, and soon it will be as though he was never wounded at all._ “So you know why I’m here.”

Cozcatototl sat back and—for once—met his eyes. “My inaction could have gotten you and the Master of the House of Darts killed. I’m prepared to make whatever restitution you desire.”

From the set of his jaw, Acatl knew he was serious. _I’ve misjudged him._ The thought sat uneasily in his gut, and so to cover it he shook his head. “The Smoking Mirror has decided to hold a grudge. I came to inquire as to the likelihood of immediate retaliation.”

His face twisted. “We’re trying to appease Him as quickly as possible. But after what you did—I will _not_ ask for details, I don’t want to know—He is...angry.”

“I gathered that,” he said dryly.

“Did you?” Cozcatototl eyed him skeptically, for a moment back to the arrogant noble-born priest Acatl had first met. “Because I feel you may have underestimated His anger somewhat. When Lord Death rages, does He scream in your head?”

He blinked. “...Lord Death does not rage.”

“How fortunate for you.” Cozcatototl sighed. “The Smoking Mirror is _wroth_ , Acatl-tzin. We are doing what we can, but I suggest you ward yourself and your loved ones as well as possible—especially those who have been touched by His rage before.”

There was something in the man’s tone that struck a chord of dread within him. _No. There were no witnesses—Mihmatini wouldn’t let anything slip._ But Cozcatototl was looking at him as though he knew, and something cold and hard slithered through his stomach. He kept his voice even and willed his hands to remain steady. “I—suppose the Breath of the Precious Twin is what you recommend, at the very least.” His own god would be of no help; Mictlantecuhtli was no protection against anything, unless you really didn’t want to have a pulse anymore. He hated the idea of having Quetzalcoatl’s gaze fixed on him, but with Tezcatlipoca having declared a personal grudge, he’d suffer through it. _It’s not just my life at stake._

He wasn’t surprised when the man nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt. Do that, and surround yourselves with light. This is not yet over.”

 _Great._ By force of will, he managed not to grimace. “Thank you for your warning.”

And then he rose and went to follow Cozcatototl’s advice.

&

The Breath of the Precious Twin turned out to be the easiest part. Expensive—even the knowledge that his temple could afford it made him wince to hand over so many quetzal feathers and cotton cloaks—but still the easiest. Setting up additional wards, on the other hand, turned out to be a trial. The Duality House was probably the best-warded complex in Tenochtitlan, but he refused to cower in his sister’s home while he waited for the all-clear from Cozcatototl. The palace, only slightly less protected, was right out. Nothing so commonplace as a threat to his life would induce him to share a roof with the likes of Tizoc and Quenami. To his relief, nobody even suggested it.

That left his temple and his own house, both of which were...well. Nothing impregnated by so much of Mictlantecuhtli’s magic was much inclined to hold onto wards of any sort. They had to work in layers, and it was a long and arduous process. Mixcoatl was first, the blood of two wolves and a jaguar holding down copper-tinged shimmers of magic. It went well enough until one of them bit Ichtaca, laying his hand open to the bone. While he cursed viciously and bound it up, Acatl stepped forward to finish the ritual.

The ward tried to slip off.

_I don’t think so._

He felt a bit like cursing himself, but applied himself to the words of the spell with renewed fervor. It took two repetitions, but eventually the magic stuck, and they had a scaffolding upon which to lay more. Xolotl was next; His spell, brief though it was, acted as a bridge for Quetzalcoatl’s clergy to do their work. They approached their rituals with a certain tinge of irritation he found oddly reassuring. At least he wasn’t the only one who objected to the Smoking Mirror’s ill-temper.

The priests of the Duality were the last to lend their strength, and Mihmatini led them. She was resplendent in her full regalia, the blue light of her magic rippling like water, and when it was finished she didn’t even stagger. Her priests looked mildly impressed; Acatl had to beat back a swell of absurd pride.

It took two days to finish all the rituals and clean up afterwards. When all the wards were in place—any more and they’d probably implode under their own weight—he found himself sharing a meal with Mihmatini and Teomitl in his courtyard. He knew not to look at the sky or the walls with his priest-senses; all the layered rituals overlapping would give him, at best, a terrible headache. He focused on his meal instead, acutely conscious of Teomitl by his side. He’d been cautious of taking the spot on the mat next to him, but then Teomitl had looked at him and his legs had folded almost automatically.

Mihmatini had the slightly unfocused look that said she was studying the wards with her own magical senses. She seemed to see something she approved of, because she nodded. “Alright, then.”

He recognized the signs of her gearing up for a fine rage—the furrowed brow, the narrowed eyes. He fought the well-honed urge to make himself as unobtrusive as possible in favor of taking another bite of his grilled frog. Teomitl’s fingers strayed lightly against his calf, and he felt his face go hot.

Finally, she set her own skewer down and took a breath. “Of course, the Smoking Mirror will one day take his place as the Sun. That’s how it should be. That’s what’s _right.”_

Teomitl lifted his head to study her. After a moment he commented, with the dry fondness of a man who lived with her every day, “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

Another slow, deep breath. Acatl saw her fists clench until her knuckles turned pale. “But I swear to you, if it were possible to wring the neck of a god…”

Teomitl’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I think you’d have to get in line.”

Against all laws of common sense and basic self-preservation, and while Acatl for his own part was trying very, very hard not to list any of the hundreds of reasons why they shouldn’t be talking like this, Teomitl’s words made her smile. She reached across the mat to pat his hand. “You’d leave me something, wouldn’t you?”

He huffed. “Of course I would.”

Acatl opened his mouth to protest—one did not talk so casually of taking down the vessels of gods, even if it had been done before and _especially_ not if doing it had nearly killed you—but then Teomitl gave his hand a squeeze and what actually came out was a strangled “Gnrkh.”

This smile was softly radiant, and Teomitl’s voice held no hesitation whatsoever. “I don’t take kindly to anyone wishing harm on the people I love. You know that.”

He found his voice somewhere. _“Teomitl.”_ Even if Mihmatini knew, to have it spoken aloud— _in front of her_ —was enough to make him turn crimson. _She can’t really—I know she said she was alright with it, that we had her blessing, but—_

But then Mihmatini looked between them with fierce eyes and said “Good,” and he felt some of the tension drain away.

The rest of the meal was quiet. He and Mihmatini were drained from the spells they’d been casting, and he wasn’t really up to much conversation; Teomitl had indeed made a full recovery from his wounds with only some impressive new scars to show for it, but he ate with singleminded focus. Once or twice Acatl lifted his head to catch a sideways glance, only for him to quickly look away.

It wasn’t until Mihmatini left, claiming exhaustion, that Teomitl spoke up again. “Acatl?”

He was suddenly very aware that they were alone in his courtyard, that Teomitl was still just barely touching him. The night breeze stirring his hair reminded him viscerally of what it had felt like to have Teomitl’s hands in it. He swallowed, mouth dry; when he licked his lips, he saw Teomitl’s gaze dart towards the movement. “Yes?”

Teomitl drew in a long breath and very carefully did not look at him. It was hard to see in the flickering torchlight, but he thought he was blushing. “Do you want...should I…?”

His face burned, but he took Teomitl’s hand. “Stay with me.” _I don’t want to be alone tonight. Not when I could spend it in your arms._

Teomitl nodded a little jerkily— _he’s shy,_ Acatl realized, and bit back a smile at the thought that at least it made two of them—but when they made to rise he sprang to his feet. They stood together for a moment, and Acatl had just enough time to hope he wasn’t somehow going about this the wrong way—

And then he was being kissed, hot and hungry. It was like they’d been separated for months instead of mere days; Teomitl grabbed his hips, pulling him in, and when he caught his lower lip gently between his teeth Acatl let out an entirely involuntary moan.

“Gods, I _missed_ you—“ Their lips were still barely touching, and Teomitl cut himself off with another kiss. The part of Acatl’s brain still capable of rational thought wondered if he, too, wanted to make up for lost time—but then that mouth left his and started to explore his throat, mapping out a sensitive spot just under his jaw, and the sizzling shock of pleasure that sent through him was a reminder that he wanted more.

He dug his fingers into Teomitl’s hair, pulling his head up. His lover’s eyes were wide and dark. “Inside,” he managed, and got another of those jerky nods in response.

They all but stumbled through the entrance curtain to the room where Acatl slept—there was a discordant jangle of bells, but he ignored it. Touching Teomitl was more important. Even their thin cloaks were entirely too much fabric separating him from bare skin; when he went for the knot holding Teomitl’s closed, he was rewarded with a breathless “Thank the gods, I wasn’t sure if you…”

“You didn’t think I’d want to do this?” _This_ was smoothing a hand down the ridges of Teomitl’s spine; _this_ was lowering his mouth to Teomitl’s throat to see whether the spot that had made his nerves sing would have the same effect on his lover. It pulled an intoxicating moan from him, vibrating against Acatl’s lips, and he trembled in return at the surge of desire through his own veins. Experimentally, he scraped his teeth over that same spot and was rewarded with a full-body jolt that pressed their hips together.

 _Oh._ Teomitl was hard already, and the realization made him have to pull back just far enough to breathe. His own blood was racing through his veins straight to his cock, and for a moment he couldn’t think past how much he wanted him.

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” Teomitl’s voice was ragged as he tore at the knot of Acatl’s cloak, sending it cascading to the floor. Then his hands were on Acatl’s shoulders, pressing him back and down, and they fell to the mat together.

And this was new, this was important, and he was suddenly intensely glad he’d followed Cozcatototl’s advice and lit every torch in his possession, because now he could _see._ Teomitl was all lean muscle and movement, roaming hands sliding over his skin as though he was determined to map every inch by feel. Scars caught the light, and he had a second to think wistfully _I want to touch them_ before he remembered that he could.

So he did. The newest ones first, rough raised lines where the Smoking Mirror’s claws had laid his chest open, and the first brush of his fingers on skin made Teomitl shiver. _These could have killed you._

Something in his face must have showed his thoughts, because Teomitl caught his wrist lightly. Slowly, not breaking eye contact, he brought Acatl’s hand up and pressed a kiss to his palm.

Acatl drew in a long breath. When Teomitl let his hand go, he curled his fingers lightly against soft skin for a moment before tracing down his jaw, over the side of his neck—and then, remembering what had gotten a reaction last time, he drew his nails down slowly over the skin. Teomitl swallowed, eyes sliding shut, and breathed his name.

Then he lunged forward to capture his mouth again. Acatl’s back hit the mat with a thump, but he barely noticed; the much more important thing was that Teomitl’s fingers were scrabbling through his hair until they untied the cord holding it back, that his free hand was sliding up the flat plane of his stomach, that when Acatl dug his fingers into the meat of his back it got an appreciative groan and a roll of his hips that left no question how much he was enjoying it.

He was viscerally aware of the heat bracketed between his thighs. All instinct said to wrap his legs around Teomitl’s waist and pull him closer, _closer,_ but he made himself speak instead. “Nn—Teomitl.” Teomitl was mouthing wickedly down the side of his neck, and he bucked helplessly before remembering himself. “What do you want? Tonight?”

Teomitl drew back, eyes heated. He’d wrapped a lock of Acatl’s hair around his fist as though that would hold him in place, and the thought thrilled him. “You.”

He took one breath. Another. He thought fleetingly of all the times he’d dreamed of this—of Teomitl above him, looking down at him so hungrily, of the insistent press of their bodies together. Of how it would feel to have Teomitl _inside_ him. “You can have me.”

“Oh _gods.”_ It came out in a groan.

 _He must want this as badly as I do._ It was a thought that was borne out as truth a moment later, when Teomitl’s hand slid down over his stomach and lower, to palm the bulge in his loincloth. The shock of it made him writhe, but Teomitl didn’t tease for long. He gave him a firm squeeze, and Acatl arched with a gasp. “Ah—“

“You sound so sweet.” His fingers rippled; when Acatl bucked, seeking more friction, he released his hold on his hair to grab for his hip instead, holding him in place. The look in his eyes was pure hunger. “Even better than I imagined.”

Acatl’s mouth went dry. “And how much have you imagined?”

“ _Everything.”_

With that, nothing could have kept his hands from Teomitl’s skin. He flattened both palms against his back, feeling hard muscle ripple as Teomitl shivered, and ran a long and deliberate stroke all the way down his spine to settle at his hips. Teomitl went eagerly, rocking himself forward in a way that sent him rubbing up against Acatl’s cock and his own fingers; the coiling heat in his gut made him groan, and for a moment he thought _Gods, I could get off from this alone,_ but then he remembered the heat in Teomitl’s voice and made himself still, trembling with anticipation, as Teomitl’s fingers went for the knot of his loincloth.

When he hesitated, Acatl wanted to strangle him. “Have you ever…?”

His blood was roaring so loudly in his veins that it was a miracle he could even hear himself speak. “You know I haven’t. And if you ask me if I’m sure, I swear—“

“I wasn’t going to.” There was a brief flicker of a smile, something with too many teeth to be called careless. “But if you want me to fuck you, we need oil or something and _I_ didn’t bring any. I wasn’t expecting to be hauled onto your mat tonight.”

Biting back a spike of irritation, he propped himself up on one elbow only to realize he couldn’t possibly reach the wicker chest with its gourd of oil from this angle. _I might have planned this better._ “Over there.”

Teomitl’s smirk was wicked, but he was mercifully silent as he retrieved the oil and settled back between Acatl’s thighs. But then he was undoing his loincloth, and the silence took on a different flavor as his gaze slid over his hard cock. Acatl watched, face burning, as he licked his lips. “Oh.” His voice was rough, and Acatl realized with a hard jolt that he liked what he saw.

 _I’m not that impressive,_ he wanted to say. But Teomitl was shedding his own loincloth, and all words were failing him. Of course he’d imagined Teomitl naked—had spent a considerable amount of time imagining it, in fact—but the reality exceeded his most fevered dreams. Teomitl’s cock was a glory, flushed and dark and a little bit curved, maybe a little bit larger than his, and suddenly he was desperate to know how it would feel inside him.

He must have made a noise, because Teomitl locked eyes with him even as a hand slid up his thigh. “If there’s truth to the idea that your virginity grants you any magical protection—“

“There is not.” He drew a breath and mentally consigned whoever had come up with that rumor to the lowest, most agonizing depths of Mictlan. “And if there was, I can’t say that I’d care.” _If either of us could die tomorrow—well. I’ll die having known this, and be happy._

For a moment, Teomitl looked surprised—but then he grinned, hot and bright, and uncorked the gourd to pour a generous helping of oil over his fingers. It dripped onto the floor and over Acatl’s sensitive flesh; when he trembled, Teomitl soothed him with a slow pet to his inner thigh. “Relax for me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 _I don’t mind if it hurts,_ he thought, but then Teomitl was sliding a finger in and he found himself unable to voice it. It was entirely different from this angle, had been so long since he’d even done it for himself that at first his body wasn’t sure if it approved—and then Teomitl’s finger curled against that spot that made him see stars, and he groaned. “I—nnh.”

“Was that good?” Teomitl paused infuriatingly, head tilted, but the question was clearly rhetorical because when Acatl rocked his hips he did it again, sending another spark up his spine.

He sucked in a hard breath. “Yes, gods, keep going—“ Teomitl didn’t need the encouragement; he grabbed Acatl’s knee to keep his legs spread, leaning over him, and worked his way in deeper. He wasn’t close enough to kiss, and that was a travesty, but when Acatl set a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed, the hitched moan that escaped was sweeter.

Gods, and like this he could feel the way Teomitl’s breathing shifted. “More?”

“Ah, please…” Teomitl didn’t make him wait, and he was grateful for that; a second finger slid in along the first, and _now_ it was starting to be a proper stretch and he arched helplessly into it, all of his prior embarrassment gone in favor of chasing the building heat licking up his spine. He knew he was making desperate little noises with each thrust, but he didn’t care.

Teomitl rocked against him, grinding their cocks together. “Duality, I wish you could see yourself right now. You’re beautiful.”

“Baseless—hah—flattery—gods, don’t tease…” Because it _was_ teasing; he knew he could come from this, and Teomitl had to know that too, and yet the slick slide of his fingers stayed just on one side of _not enough._ He bucked his hips and the pace didn’t alter at all.

Teomitl’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “You think you’re ready for me?”

At any other time he might have been offended. Now, any such feeling was effectively drowned out by the need coursing through him. He spread his legs wider, arching to put himself on display. “Past ready.”

Teomitl shifted onto his knees to guide himself in, tension in every line of his body when he breached that ring of muscle. The first thrust had him halfway in; the second had him hilted, flush against Acatl’s hips, and for a moment he braced himself on the mat with his eyes squeezed shut. “Ah…”

Acatl trembled around him. “Don’t.” He’d never felt so full in his life; Teomitl was hot and hard in him, and he needed more like he needed to breathe. He was exquisitely conscious of each small shift of his cock. “Don’t be careful with me.”

Teomitl nodded. Drew his hips back.

And slammed back in _hard._

“Oh, _fuck.”_ The words were all but torn out of him; Teomitl was setting a ruthless pace, and there was no time for him to adjust. He didn’t _want_ to adjust; all he wanted, all he needed, was to meet each thrust with a buck of his own hips. For all that, it took a moment until they established a rhythm that did more than frustrate him; it was only when Teomitl ground his hips forward in a rough circle that the stray sparks flashing through him coalesced into a blaze.

It was almost too much; he needed to do _something_ to relieve the building pressure. When he clawed roughly down Teomitl’s back, his lover shuddered and fucked into him harder. “Gods—gods, you feel—ah!” His voice cracked as Acatl squeezed around him, and when Acatl buried a hand in his hair and yanked him down to take a bruising kiss he made an incoherent noise into it. “Mm...”

And he kept _moving._ Acatl had a fleeting half-thought that Teomitl fucked like the warrior he was, all steady discipline—but he was holding back. He was holding back, and Acatl could feel it in the tension of his back muscles, in the way he clawed at the mat below them instead of Acatl’s hair. Acatl was _done_ with restraint. “Harder,” he panted between each savage thrust. “I want—nngh, I want to feel you tomorrow.”

Teomitl sucked in a noisy breath. “Make sure you feel it for a _week_ —“ He moved to hike Acatl’s leg up over his shoulder, changing the angle, and Acatl’s whole body jolted on his next thrust.

“Ah!” His mind was blank; as Teomitl pounded into him, each push inward striking that spot that made him writhe and buck his hips for more, he became a thing of pure sensation. There was the mat under him, sticking to his sweat-damp skin; there was Teomitl’s hand _finally_ grabbing a fistful of his hair and keening when Acatl did the same to him; there was the stretch of his thigh muscles and the impossible way he molded to fit Teomitl’s cock. He was so close he could almost cry. _More—just a little more—_

And then Teomitl was wrapping a hand around his cock and pumping him firmly, and he came so hard his legs shook. All else ceased to matter; there was only this bright, blinding ecstasy, only Teomitl snarling in triumph as he flung his head back with an incoherent sob and spilled himself all over their stomachs.

When the aftershocks faded, he realized Teomitl was still hard and making as if to pull out; before he could, Acatl grabbed for his hips to pull him closer. “Don’t stop, don’t you _dare_ stop.” In the face of his earthshattering orgasm, he knew it would overwhelm him. The thought only brought a bone-deep satisfaction. _For once in my life—I want to be overwhelmed._ “You said you’d make me feel it, didn’t you?!”

Teomitl bore down on him, teeth bared. He looked almost feral, which probably shouldn’t have thrilled him so much. “I’ll give you—what you want—“ Each thrust jolted already-overstimulated nerves, made him shudder and whine in a way that might have been deeply humiliating if he’d been able to think that far. But then Teomitl was coming with an inarticulate cry that might have been his name, and—

Duality, he could _feel_ Teomitl’s cock pulse as he spent inside him. He let his legs fall open with a shaky moan, heart hammering away as he caught his breath. It seemed as though he should say something, but the only words that came to mind were varyingly obscene. Even when Teomitl finally pulled out with a sigh, all he could manage was a hitched breath.

It wasn’t until Teomitl was cleaning them up with the aid of a spare rag that he managed to make a sound. “Mm...”

His lover curled up against him, letting Acatl lay his head on his arm. He was still gloriously naked, but Acatl was too tired to appreciate the sight. When he finally broke the easy silence, the teasing edge of his voice was reflected in his eyes. “I hope nothing comes for us in the night. I think you wore me out.”

He tucked his burning face into Teomitl’s shoulder, which was no help whatsoever. As promised, he could still feel how hard he’d been fucked—and it was _absurd_ to think he’d exhaust a trained warrior. _“Teomitl.”_

“You did!” Teomitl did a very good job of acting innocently outraged that Acatl would disbelieve him, but the note of suppressed amusement in his voice rang through clearly anyway.

It filled his chest with a ridiculous bubble of joy. _This is the man I love._ “And here I thought you would have a warrior’s stamina,” he huffed, and poked Teomitl’s side to show he didn’t mean it.

It must have worked, because his lover chuckled and nuzzled at his hair. “...I could be persuaded to another round.”

He felt himself flush. “I might need a moment.”

“Mm.” Teomitl’s smile was all sweetness. “Rest. I’ll be here.”

He closed his eyes. A moment’s rest sounded like a wonderful idea.

He woke to the distinct, horrible feeling of the wards snapping. No, not snapping—parting, like a hole in gauzy cotton, to let in what they had been made to stop. It made him nauseous, and when he sat up too quickly his head spun. He barely even noticed the lingering ache in his muscles.

“Something’s coming.” Teomitl was dressed already, tying his sandals one-handed and looking around for anything that would serve as a weapon. By the expression on his face, he was regretting not bringing his sword.

“I know.” He let his fingers rest on the floor for a moment, feeling the faint tinge of underworld magic that had long since permeated his home. It helped a little. Not much—he could still sense the twisting wrongness, the dancing vertigo at the edges of his sight—but a little. It was much darker outside than it had been.

Moving quickly and quietly, he dressed himself and crossed the room to where he kept his favorite knives. He wished he had a sword—or better yet a spear, for the reach it would afford—but knives would do. Three for him and the last two for Teomitl, who accepted them with a nod and a faint wince as he gripped their handles. They threw up faint sparks where they met Huitzilopochtli’s protective magic, but his lover didn’t so much as flinch.

Darker than the shadows cast by the flickering torches, something was moving. Teomitl murmured, “Is that—“ but Acatl held up a hand for silence; any second’s worth of preparation they had was valuable.

He slashed his earlobes and mouthed the words of a spell—not for protection, but to wrap the chill of the grave around his limbs. It was a sickening sensation, turning his skin loose and his bones heavy, leaching all the warmth from the air, but anything that touched him would at least be given pause.

It was all he had time for before the creature slipped into the room.

He supposed it had once been an ashen jaguar. Now it was blurred, almost insubstantial, and he could see the courtyard through its body—but its claws and fangs were razor-sharp obsidian, and those were entirely solid. And it was growling, a low rumble he could feel through the soles of his feet.

Teomitl lunged to meet it. For a moment Acatl thought he’d struck home, but then the jaguar flowed around his blades like smoke and reformed—no. It wasn’t reforming. It had split in half, and now there were two slightly smaller ones.

And the new one was bearing down on him. He met it with a slash of his knives, aiming for its throat, but its momentum carried it under his guard and the strike went wide of his target. Then there was an impact, and a burst of freezing wind threw him off his feet and into the wall. Something cracked, and through the blinding pain he prayed it wasn’t his skull.

 _I need to get up. I need to…_ But his body wouldn’t obey him, and all he could manage was a clumsy strike to where he desperately hoped its paw was. His blade passed through the smoke of its body, and the claws raked at his arm. He braced himself for pain—

It didn’t come.

Between one blink and the next, light flooded the room. _Teomitl._ He’d taken wounds, but as the first jaguar sprang at him he dropped to one knee and let slip his hold on Huitzilopochtli’s magic. By itself it might not have done much, but enough torches were still smoldering in their holders for the magic to feed on, and it eagerly amplified and looped back upon itself. For a moment Teomitl was flat on the ground and outlined in light with a jaguar trying to bite his face off, but then the baking heat of the sun flung it off him and sent it rolling head over tail. The one menacing Acatl froze, cowering, and Acatl heaved himself up for another try at its throat or the soft underside of its jaw.

The jaguar Teomitl had been facing made a noise. It took Acatl a horrified moment to realize that it was trying to speak. “...hhhyouuu…”

Teomitl pushed himself upright, blood streaming down his arm. Even wounded, he could not have looked more like an Emperor if he’d been wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown; magic played over his skin like sunlight through water, and even his blood shimmered. “Silence.”

“You...my reign...”

His face was a mask of fury, eyes glazed over with gold. “How many times must we teach you to stay where you ought to be?!”

And then he struck, and the light dripping down over his knives cleaved the head from its body. As both parts dissolved into mist, another step brought him to the one still frozen within range of Acatl. One more strike put an end to that one too.

Acatl made another try at gaining his feet. This time he made it to his knees, but Teomitl was suddenly by his side with a concerned hand at his shoulder, and he sank back down with a groan as the world spun. His head was a point of vicious agony, but it didn’t feel broken. _I hope. Duality preserve me._

Huitzilopochtli’s magic had faded from Teomitl’s skin, but his hands were still wonderfully warm as they ran over his skull to check for injuries. “Acatl!”

“I’m.” He blinked. His vision blurred. “I’ll be alright. I think.”

“Don’t move.” Teomitl tilted his head up, frowning as their eyes met. “You might have a concussion. I’ll fetch—“ He cut himself off at the sound of footsteps, head swiveling towards the entrance curtain.

 _Oh, no._ Acatl spared a moment to be thankful that they’d had enough warning to dress; true, neither of them were wearing cloaks, but surely it wasn’t too strange for Teomitl to spend the night at his brother-in-law’s house. They could come up with some explanation for this. No matter that he’d never been a very good liar; he could learn. He’d have to.

Then he saw who’d come to examine the damage to the wards, and he knew they were doomed.

“Ah,” Ichtaca said. “This explains a lot.”

 _..._ _What?_ Teomitl’s expression was briefly a mirror of his own, but when Ichtaca asked him for an explanation of what had happened to the wards—no mention of why Teomitl was there, no mention of the marks on their throats or the scratches down Teomitl’s back—it settled into the severe calm of a warrior reporting to his commander. Yes, Tezcatlipoca’s creatures had attacked. Yes, they had dealt with them. No, neither of them seemed to be seriously injured but Acatl-tzin had a head wound that needed to be looked at.

It seemed to take no time at all to summon a priest of Patecatl, who arrived with a caged lizard and a bag of herbs to treat their wounds. Teomitl’s were easy, but then the priest was checking Acatl’s eyes and asking a few pointed questions before pronouncing a clear concussion, “And it was a good thing you summoned us, Teomitl-tzin.” He sighed down at Acatl. “Acatl-tzin, must we really keep meeting like this?”

 _It’s not as though I_ tried _to get a concussion._ But when he tried to speak the words, his tongue didn’t quite obey him.

The priest bowed to them both. “Wake him up every hour or so, Teomitl-tzin.”

“I will.” Teomitl didn’t smile, but when they were finally alone again, he took Acatl’s hand and twined their fingers together. In a voice so soft he almost didn’t hear it, his lover murmured, “I’ll protect you.”

 _I know you will._ He drifted off.

&

Apparently, it had been the fault of the breeze. While he and Teomitl had been... _occupied,_ the night wind had snuffed enough torches to allow passage to the weakest of Tezcatlipoca’s creatures. Such were the words of the priestess of Quetzalcoatl who ran up the steps of his temple the next morning, at any rate, bowing and apologizing profusely for not accounting for the weather.

“It’s hardly your fault, Tochton-tzin,” he said, and meant it.

She blushed, stammered something that he was sure was another apology, and retreated. He didn’t have long to savor his newfound return to the peace and quiet of the temple accounts, however; barely half an hour later, Ichtaca announced that the high priest of Tezcatlipoca wanted to see him, and he sighed as the man parted the curtain. The headache he thought he’d gotten rid of was trying very hard to come back.

“Acatl-tzin!”

There was dried blood under Cozcatototl’s fingernails; fresh wounds striped his shins and forearms. Acatl wondered what else he’d sacrificed. “What do you have for me?”

“Good news.” His smile was tired, but it reached his eyes. “The Smoking Mirror pronounces himself well satisfied with our obeisance. I don’t think he’ll be a problem for you anymore.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good. That’s—good.”

Cozcatototl cast a glance over the spread-out accounts around him. There was a brief, sympathetic wince—one high priest to another. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

That left him with Ichtaca, and now that they were alone together the atmosphere was almost too awkward for words. He waited uneasily for Ichtaca to break the silence, but all he did was carefully adjust the loose sheets of their accounts so that they were stacked evenly.

Finally, it was too much for him. “About last night.”

“Is there something about last night that should concern me, Acatl-tzin? Something related to the future of this temple?” Ichtaca looked up, fixing him with a searching gaze. “Unless we are due for some...unwanted Imperial attention, I don’t think there is.”

His face burned. “Ah. No—no, there isn’t. The temple is safe.” The absurd image of the temple sheathed in gold popped into his head, and he bit back an inappropriate smile before Ichtaca could question it. _Teomitl probably would, if I didn’t stop him._

When he was finally alone—properly alone—he took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back. It was time to tell Teomitl the good news.

Of course, actually _finding_ him wasn’t nearly so straightforward. He stopped by the Duality House first; after last night’s unexpected combat, Mihmatini had been apprised of the situation and needed to know they were reasonably safe again. As grateful as she was for the news—and as worried as she was about his health, making him sit and eat something before she let him go—she was less help in figuring out where her husband had gone off to. Acatl eventually tracked him down in his courtyard in the palace, eating lunch and glaring at a codex listing the tribute from one of their vassal cities.

He cleared his throat. “Teomitl?”

“Acatl!” His face lit up, all worries set aside with the carelessly discarded codex. “How are you feeling?”

He debated an edited version of the truth before deciding honesty would serve him better. “...A slight headache. Nothing serious.”

“Oh, good.” He couldn’t seem to meet his eyes, gaze alighting on the walls and floors but nowhere near Acatl’s face.

Acatl bit his lip. _Gods. Does he...does he regret last night? Did we take this too far, too quickly?_ “I, ah.” He groped for words and found none.

Teomitl still seemed fidgety, but the fidgeting was resolving into something with purpose. His fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for Acatl, but he visibly pulled himself back. And then he said, quiet but devastating, “I missed you.”

Right. They didn’t dare touch here, not with eyes and ears everywhere. Even though he ached with the desire to wrap his arms around him, it would be suicide. And so he responded, in a voice just as soft, “I missed you too. I came to tell you that I had a visit from Cozcatototl-tzin.” At Teomitl’s blank look, he elaborated, “The high priest of Tezcatlipoca. He says he’s managed to propitiate his patron, and so we _should_ be safe.”

“...So it’s over?”

“I think so,” he murmured. “For now.”

Teomitl cast his gaze to the floor. “And...Ichtaca.”

He blushed, and had to swallow before he could find the words—first to figure out what to say, and second to figure out how to say it in the event any spies overheard. “He is...only worried about the safety of our temple and our clergy. He has no other concerns.”

Teomitl visibly relaxed, swaying towards him. Again he looked for a moment as though he wanted to touch, but then he straightened up and smiled. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I did, but,”—but Teomitl looked mildly crestfallen, and that wouldn’t do—“I could use a walk to remind myself that my legs still work, I was going over accounts all morning. Come with me?” Out of the palace, away from prying eyes. He had a vision, brief and impossible, of them holding hands in the crowd.

By the look on Teomitl’s face, he was thinking something along the same lines. “Of course.”

They left the palace in thoughtful silence. Teomitl waited until they were well clear of the compound and hidden in the bustle of the Sacred Precinct before he broke it, leaning over to growl into his ear, “If your legs still work, I must not have satisfied you properly last night.”

He froze midstride, hearing himself make a noise like a tortured parrot. “I—you—“ He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his face was bright red, and could only pray that nobody had noticed his reaction. The Sacred Precinct was always crowded, but there was anonymity in a crowd where everyone was intent on their own lives. When he regained control of his limbs, he stormed ahead without looking back. _To say such things in public—I cannot believe…_

Teomitl kept pace easily. They didn’t quite touch, but when his fingers hooked into a fold of Acatl’s robe, it arrested his stride. His voice stayed low, a purr meant for his ears only. “If you’re truly offended, you could pay me back in kind. I’d like that.”

The thought of it—of pinning Teomitl down, giving as good as he’d got—sent a rush of heat through him, and he grabbed Teomitl’s arm to haul him close. “You.” His voice shook. “You are a menace, bringing that up  _here_ —“ Teomitl flushed, looking like he was about to apologize, but Acatl didn’t give him the chance. Before he could change his mind, he added, “Come home with me.”

Teomitl’s grin was radiant. Wicked—oh, he knew that edge to it now—but radiant. “I was hoping you’d say that .”

**Author's Note:**

> right, so when I said this was a oneshot? oops.
> 
> wanna yell about how cool acatl is? find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ship_to_hell/) or [tumblr!](https://notapaladin.tumblr.com/)


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